Chapter Twenty-Two Wedding Day Countdown #2
“I’m busy.” I keep walking, phone pressed to my ear.
“Busy? Your next brief is due—”
“Monday. It’s due Monday.” I can picture him in his office, pacing, tie loosened.
“He wants to review it today.” Each word is clipped, stressed.
“Well, he’s going to review it Monday.”
Silence. Gideon doesn’t do silence, which probably means he’s about to go nuclear.
“Are you seriously blowing off Feldstein? Now? When you’re this close to partnership?” His voice climbs, incredulous.
I watch through the window as Poppy races across the lawn, clipboard in hand, hair already escaping from whatever style she’d attempted. She’s talking to three people at once, somehow making each one feel heard. Gesturing with the clipboard, smiling, solving problems with that endless energy.
“Dean?” Gideon’s voice pulls me back.
“I’ll call him back.” My gaze stays on Poppy, tracking her movement across the property.
“You’ll call him—are you insane? This is your career we’re talking about!” He’s nearly shouting now.
“I’m aware.” My voice is calm. Too calm, probably.
“Then why—”
I hang up.
Turn off my phone. The screen goes dark, and something in my chest loosens.
Fuck Feldstein. Fuck the brief. Fuck partnership.
Today, nothing matters except making sure this wedding goes perfectly.
For her.
I head inside to shower and change. The house is chaos—bridesmaids shrieking about something, someone’s lost a shoe, Mason’s guitar playing drifts from the basement, off-tempo and anxious.
I make it to my room without being spotted. I strip off the salmon-scented clothes, tossing them in a pile for the dry cleaner to deal with. I take a quick, brutal shower, scrubbing away the smell of fish and highway.
The tux hangs in my closet like an accusation. When’s the last time I wore this? Some firm event? A client’s daughter’s wedding where I spent the whole time reviewing contracts on my phone?
This feels different.
Everything about this week feels different.
I’m adjusting my bow tie, fingers fumbling with the silk, when Mason appears in my doorway.
“Dude.” He’s already in his tux, looking nervous and happy and terrified all at once.
“What?” I focus on the mirror, the tie finally cooperating.
“Mom’s looking for you.” He leans against the doorframe, grinning despite the warning.
“Tell her I died.” I move to my cufflinks, silver and simple.
“Funny. She wants to discuss your ‘life choices’.” He makes air quotes and smirks.
“My life choices are fine.” But I can feel his eyes on me, assessing.
“Sure they are.” He shifts his weight, crossing his arms. “Is that why you just hung up on your boss?”
“You were listening?” I glance at him in the mirror.
“These walls are thin.” He grins wider. “Also, you were yelling.”
Oops.
“I wasn’t yelling.” I check my reflection, smoothing down my jacket.
“You were aggressively speaking.” His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious.
I finish with the tie. Check my cufflinks. Avoid his eyes in the mirror.
“So,” he says, drawing out the word. “Poppy.”
“What about her?” I busy myself with my pocket square.
“You’re really gonna let her leave tomorrow?” The question lands heavy.
“She has a life in California. A business. I have—” I gesture vaguely at nothing.
“A job that makes you miserable and an empty house?” He raises an eyebrow.
Ouch. That was a low blow, even for him.
“Mason.” I give him a stern look, turning to face him.
“What? Someone’s gotta say it.” He shrugs, unapologetic.
“No. They don’t.” I cross the room and check my reflection in the full-length mirror. The tux fits perfectly. I look like someone who has his life together.
The mirror’s a liar.
“She’s good for you.” His voice softens.
“She’s—” Complicated. Terrifying. Everything. I straighten my tie even though it’s perfect. “She’s leaving.”
“So ask her to stay.” He says it like it’s simple. Like words can fix this.
I almost laugh, the sound bitter. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why?” Genuine confusion colors his voice.
Because I don’t know how. Because the last time I asked someone to stay, she left anyway. Because Poppy deserves better than an emotionally stunted lawyer who just learned how to feel again.
“It just isn’t.” I turn away from the mirror, from my own reflection.
Mason shakes his head, disappointed. “You’re an idiot.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.” I grab my jacket, shrugging it on.
“At least you’re a well-dressed idiot.” He claps my shoulder, the gesture grounding. “Come on. Time to go play guitar for the woman you’re pretending not to love.”
“I’m not—”
“Save it for Reddit, bro.” He’s already walking away, laughing.
He leaves. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see what Poppy sees. What makes her look at me like I’m worth saving.
My phone—still off—sits on the dresser. Eighteen missed calls, probably. Emails piling up. My entire career potentially circling the drain.
I leave it off.
Grab my guitar and head downstairs.
Time to play wedding music and pretend my entire life isn’t reorganizing itself around a woman who’s leaving in twenty-four hours.
The estate looks like Poppy’s Pinterest board exploded.
In the best way. Flowers everywhere—peonies and roses and things I can’t name.
Fairy lights even though it’s still daylight, strung between trees like captured stars.
White chairs lined up in tidy, perfect rows.
The freaking porta-potties that are somehow classy, disguised with lattice and climbing vines.
And Poppy. Standing by the arch, adjusting something that doesn’t need adjusting. Nervous energy radiating off her in waves I can feel from here.
She’s in a burgundy dress that should be illegal. Hair twisted up with what looks like—is that a pencil?
Of course it is.
She sees me. Freezes. Her clipboard drops a few inches, forgotten.
I cross to her, guitar in hand, my shoes crunching on the grass.
“Hey.” Brilliant opening. Truly.
“Hey.” She won’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on something over my shoulder. “You look…”
“Like a penguin?” I offer, trying for humor.
That gets a smile. Small, but real. Her shoulders drop slightly. “A very handsome penguin.”
“The caterers are all set,” I say quietly, close enough now to catch her perfume.
She nods, still not quite looking at me, then stops. Her head tilts, confusion crossing her face. “Wait. How do you know that?”
Shit.
My gaze drops to her mouth without permission. Focus, idiot.
“I just—checked. Everything’s fine.” The lie sits uncomfortably on my tongue.
She narrows her eyes, that sharp intelligence zeroing in. But before she can interrogate me, the photographer appears, breathless and harried.
“Need the groomsmen! Ten minutes!” She’s already backing away, camera bouncing against her chest.
“That’s my cue.” I start to leave, taking a step backward.
“Dean?” Her voice stops me.
I turn back, waiting.
“Thank you. For… everything.” The words are quiet, sincere, and they hit me square in the chest.
There are words I should say. Important words. Life-changing words about how she’s turned my entire world sideways in the span of a week.
Instead, I just nod. “Just doing my part.”
“Right. Your part.” Something flickers in her expression—disappointment, maybe.
We stare at each other. The space between us feels electric, charged with everything unsaid. I can feel the pull of her like gravity.
“Dean!” Mason’s voice carries across the lawn, breaking the moment. “Stop making heart eyes and get over here!”
Poppy’s cheeks turn pink, color flooding her face. She looks down at her clipboard. “You should go.”
“Yeah.” But my feet don’t move.
Neither of us moves.
“After,” she says suddenly, meeting my eyes. “After the ceremony. Can we—”
“Yes.” The word comes out before she finishes.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” But she’s smiling now, that real smile that makes my chest tight.
“Doesn’t matter. Yes.” I mean it. Whatever she wants to talk about, whatever she needs, yes.
She bites her lip. That thing that makes me stupid, that thing that makes me want to close the distance between us and—
“Okay.” Her voice is soft, hopeful.
“Okay.”
“Dean! Seriously, bro!” Mason again, more insistent.
I back away, still watching her. Committing this moment to memory—the late afternoon sun catching in her hair, the burgundy dress, the way she’s looking at me.
One more smile. Then she’s back to her clipboard, and I’m jogging toward my brother and this wedding that changed everything.
Twenty minutes until showtime.
And I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
Not of playing guitar in front of people, but of what I’m going to say to her afterward.
When there are no more distractions, no more wedding to hide behind.
Just me and her and the truth I’ve been running from all week.