Chapter Twenty-Two Wedding Day Countdown
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wedding Day Countdown
Dean
I break at least six traffic laws getting to my storage unit.
Haven’t been here in months. Years, maybe.
The lock sticks, protesting when I yank it open.
The guitar case is exactly where I left it, buried under boxes of Emily’s shit I never returned and law school textbooks I’ll never open again.
Dust motes dance in the fluorescent light as I pull things aside, creating a small avalanche of my past.
The Martin D-28 is still perfect. Still smells like rosewood and regret.
I tune it in the car, muscle memory taking over. My fingers remember even if my brain would rather forget. Each string hums to life under my touch, the sound achingly familiar. Like coming home to a place you swore you’d never return to.
Back at the estate, I find Mason in the kitchen, stress-eating cereal. He’s hunched over the counter, tie already loosened, shoveling Cheerios into his mouth like they hold the answers to life.
“I need your help,” I say.
“If this is about the bachelor party, I already apologized for the—” He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth, then stops. His eyes drop to the guitar case. “Is that—”
“Can you still play bass?” I cut him off before he can finish that thought.
He blinks. “Uh. Yeah? Why?” The spoon clatters back into the bowl.
“Because Poppy’s guitarist canceled, and she’s about to have a breakdown.”
“So?” But his posture’s already changing, straightening.
“So we’re fixing it.” I set the case down on the counter with a thunk.
“We?” His eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
I hold up the guitar case, popping the latches. His eyes go wide when he sees the Martin.
“Dude. You haven’t played since—” His voice drops, careful now.
“I know.” I fix him with a hard stare, daring him to say more.
“Are you sure you want to—”
“Mason,” I cut him off, jaw tight. “It’s your wedding. Poppy’s worked her ass off. We’re doing this.”
He studies me for a long moment, cereal forgotten. Then grins like a love-drunk idiot, that dopey expression I’ve been seeing all week. “Hell yeah, we are.”
We spend the next hour in the basement, running through processional music, the songs Ivy requested, trying to remember how to harmonize.
My fingers hurt, the tips burning where calluses used to be.
It’s a good hurt, though. Like waking up something that’s been sleeping too long.
Like remembering you’re still alive under all the armor.
“You know,” he says during a break, adjusting his bass strap, “you could just tell her you like her.”
I keep my eyes on the fretboard, fingers finding the next chord. “Tell who what?”
“Poppy. That you’re stupid about her.” He’s grinning again; I can hear it in his voice.
“I’m not—” I start, but the protest dies.
“You’re literally learning guitar again for her.” He plucks a string, the note hanging in the air between us.
“It’s for the wedding.” But the words sound hollow even to me.
“Right.” He starts playing a bassline, something jazzy and knowing. “That’s why you’ve been moping around since she started avoiding you.”
My fingers slip on a chord. “She’s not avoiding me.”
“Bro. She literally hid behind a tent yesterday afternoon when you walked by.” He’s laughing now, the sound bouncing off the basement walls.
Yeah. She did. I’d pretended not to notice, but I saw the flash of burgundy, the way she ducked behind the white canvas.
“I posted about her on Reddit,” I admit, the confession scraping out.
Mason stops playing. The sudden silence is deafening. “You what?”
“I asked Reddit if I was an asshole for wanting her gone.” It was days ago, in my defense. Before I knew what she’d become to me.
“Are you freaking serious?” His voice climbs an octave.
I frown and fiddle with the tuning pegs, not meeting his eyes. “She found out.”
“No shit she’s avoiding you!” He sets the bass down with more force than necessary.
“I apologized.”
“How?” He crosses his arms, waiting.
“We, uh, kissed.” The memory floods back—her hands in my shirt, the desperate sound she made, how right it felt.
Mason drops his pick. It hits the concrete floor with a tiny plastic tap. “What?”
“In my kitchen. After she yelled at me.” I can still taste her—vanilla and fury and something sweet.
“And?” He’s leaning forward now, invested.
The memory of her on my couch hits like a sucker punch.
Curled up in that green dress, looking wrecked and perfect and so vulnerable it made my chest crack open.
She’d hummed off-key Motown to my neighbor’s neurotic dog like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like she belonged there. Like she belonged with me.
And when I found them both asleep—Poppy with her hand tucked under her cheek, Muffin pressed against her stomach—something fundamental shifted.
The kind of shift that makes you realize you’ve been living your life wrong.
That maybe all those walls you built weren’t protecting you from pain, just preventing you from this.
From her. From the terrifying possibility that someone could matter this much.
“And now I’m pretty sure she’s avoiding me.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Because you kissed?” Mason picks up his bass again, fingers finding the strings.
I shrug, the motion feeling heavy. “Because she’s leaving tomorrow, and we both know this is complicated and—”
“And you’re an idiot.” He says it gently, but it still lands like a punch.
“Thanks. Super helpful.” I adjust my grip on the guitar neck, focusing on the wood grain.
He picks up the bass again. “Play the processional again. And maybe think about why you’re doing this.”
“For the wedding—”
“Dean.” Just my name, but it carries weight.
I shut up and play.
The day’s already trying to kill me, and it’s only noon.
I’m in the kitchen, third coffee burning my tongue, pretending to read emails when my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number. The screen glows accusingly on the marble counter.
“Dean Whitaker,” I answer, expecting it to be a work call. Another fire to put out.
“Mr. Whitaker? This is Tom from Harvest Table Catering. We’ve had an accident.”
My stomach drops, coffee turning to acid. “Define accident.”
“Our van hit a deer. We’re okay, but the vehicle’s totaled and—” His voice is shaking, young and scared.
“Where are you?” I’m already moving toward my keys.
“Route 9, about forty minutes out. The food’s mostly intact, but we can’t—”
“Text me your exact location. Don’t move.” I hang up before he can protest.
I stare at the ceiling. Count to five. Breathe through the surge of adrenaline.
Then I grab my keys.
Mason’s in the hallway, adjusting his tie for the fifteenth time. His hands are shaking slightly. “Where you going?”
“Errand.” I don’t slow down.
“Now? The ceremony’s in—” He checks his watch, panic edging into his voice.
“I know when the ceremony is.” The words come out sharper than intended.
He narrows his eyes, that brotherly radar activating. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Practice the processional again. Your transition’s still rough.” I’m already pulling on my jacket.
“Dean—”
But I’m already out the door, gravel crunching under my shoes as I jog to the car.
The drive takes thirty-seven minutes. I know because I watch every minute tick by on the dashboard clock. I find the catering van on the shoulder, front end crumpled like a crushed soda can, the driver looking shell-shocked and pale.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Tom?” I climb out of my car, assessing the damage.
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, we’ve never—” He’s young, maybe twenty-five, looking like he might cry or throw up.
“Is the food salvageable?” I cut through his panic with efficiency.
He blinks at me, surprised by the question. “Most of it. The appetizers took a hit, but the main courses are in the back—”
“Good. Help me load my car.” I’m already popping my trunk.
“Sir?” He stares at me like I’ve suggested we fly.
“We’re transferring everything. Now.” I start pulling out the first container, still warm.
It takes two trips to get it all safely loaded. My BMW smells like salmon and anxiety, the leather seats probably ruined. Tom rides with me on the last run, clutching a tray of something that might be bruschetta like it’s a newborn.
“I should call your brother—” he starts, voice uncertain.
“No.” The word is final.
“But—” He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
“You call no one. Got it?” I bark, eyes on the road as I push the speed limit.
He nods, terrified, shrinking against the passenger door.
Smart kid.
Back at the estate, we unload everything into the kitchen. It takes twenty minutes of careful maneuvering, my back protesting as we carry the last of the heavy trays.
“Set up here,” I tell Tom, pointing to the prep station. “Use whatever you need. Can your team make it?”
“They’re getting a rental. Should be here by—” He’s already pulling out his phone, fingers flying.
“Good. Make it work.” I turn to leave, loosening my tie. The salmon smell is clinging to my clothes.
“Wait. Should I tell the wedding planner—”
“No.” The word comes out harder than intended. “She’s got enough to deal with. This stays between us.”
“But—” His eyes are wide, confused.
“Tom. The bride wants salmon. She’s getting salmon. End of story.” I level him with a look that’s closed more than one business deal.
He stares at me, processing. “You’re doing this for the bride?”
No. I’m doing it for the woman who stayed up all night making sure every detail was perfect. Who forgot to eat because she was too busy taking care of everyone else. Who looked at me last night like I might actually be worth something.
“Sure,” I lie, the word tasting bitter. “For the bride.”
My phone rings as I’m heading back to the house. Gideon’s name flashes on the screen.
I let it go to voicemail.
He calls again immediately. Persistent bastard.
This time, I answer. “What?”
“Where the hell are you? Feldstein wants—” His voice is tight, professional panic mode.