Chapter Twenty-Three It’s Go Time
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s Go Time
Poppy
The ceremony starts in thirty minutes, and I’m trying not to have a complete mental breakdown.
Everything else is perfect. The flowers are stunning—peonies and roses exactly like Ivy wanted, arrangements I spent hours perfecting.
The well-dressed guests are seated, chattering quietly, sunlight filtering through the trees.
Ivy is glowing in her saved dress. Mason is looking nervous but happy in his tux.
Just… no music.
“We can use Spotify,” CeCe suggests, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll hide a speaker—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
“It’s better than silence.” She’s scrolling through playlists, trying to help.
“It’s not—” I press my palms against my eyes. Hard. Stars burst behind my eyelids. “Ivy specifically wanted acoustic guitar. She had this whole vision of walking down the aisle to actual music, not some crummy speaker playing—”
That’s when I hear it.
Guitar.
An acoustic guitar.
Coming from the ceremony space.
I rush outside and stop dead. My feet literally stop working. Cement shoes in the grass.
Dean’s sitting on a stool near the arch, guitar in his lap, playing something soft and beautiful.
His long fingers pluck the strings to produce something that can only be described as enchanting.
He’s bent over the instrument, completely focused, and the late afternoon light catches in his hair.
Mason’s beside him with a bass, grinning like he knows a secret.
Three hundred guests are seated, listening to Dean freaking Whitaker play guitar. Like it’s normal. Like my entire world isn’t tilting off its axis.
“What…” I can’t finish. Can’t breathe. Can’t process. My clipboard dangles forgotten at my side.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the rows of white chairs.
And there’s something in his expression that makes my knees forget how joints work—vulnerability, determination, something raw and open.
But I make my way closer, weaving between chairs, amazed at how good they sound.
The notes hang in the air like something sacred.
“Musician’s here,” he says when I reach him. Casual. Like he didn’t just save my whole ass.
“You play.” It’s not a question. More like an accusation of withheld information.
“Used to.” His fingers keep moving over the strings, finding chords with muscle memory. The sound is… God. It’s beautiful. “Bit rusty.”
Rusty, my ass. He sounds like he was born with that guitar in his hands. The way his fingers move—confident, sure, creating something achingly lovely. And he looks hot. Infuriatingly, devastatingly hot.
“Dean—” My voice cracks.
“We’ve got the processional, the recessional, and that song Ivy wanted for the unity ceremony.” He’s talking to the guitar now, not looking at me. His jaw’s tight, shoulders tense. “Mason helped with the arrangements.”
“Helped?” Mason snorts, shaking his head. “Bro, I basically—”
“Mason.” Dean’s voice carries that older brother warning, sharp and final. “Not now.”
“How did you—” I stop. Start over. Try to make words happen through the lump in my throat. “When did you—”
“This morning.” Still not looking at me, eyes fixed on the fretboard. “After you needed help.”
After I needed help.
Like it’s that simple. Like learning guitar music in a couple of hours is just something people do. Like resurrecting buried parts of yourself for someone else’s crisis is normal behavior.
“Poppy.” Now he looks at me. Really looks at me. And there’s so much in his eyes I can’t catalog it all—fear and hope and something that looks dangerously close to the thing I’ve been trying not to name. “Let us do this. Please.”
Us. The Whitaker brothers, who spent most of the week bickering about grass and liability insurance but are now sitting here with instruments because I needed them.
Because I needed help and Dean… Dean chose this. Chose me. Chose to make sure this wedding—my wedding—went perfectly.
I’m going to cry. Right here. In front of three hundred guests and God and everyone. My eyes are already burning, vision blurring. Ugh, my makeup!
“I can’t—” My throat closes up. “This is—”
“If you cry, your mascara will run.” His mouth quirks, that almost-smile that makes me stupid. “And then Ivy will cry. And then everyone will cry. It’ll be a whole thing.”
A laugh bubbles out—watery and ridiculous, half-sob, half-giggle. “You’re an ass.”
“Yeah.” He starts playing again. Something soft and warm that sounds like a lullaby, like coming home. “Now go do your thing. We’ve got the music.”
I should go. Should check on Ivy. Should do literally anything except stand here staring at Dean Whitaker like he just handed me the moon. This softer, sweeter version of Dean that I never knew existed. But I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the grass.
“That song,” I whisper, barely audible over the music. “What is it?”
He glances at Mason, who suddenly finds his bass very interesting, studying the strings like they hold the secrets of the universe.
“Just something I wrote,” Dean says quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “A long time ago.”
He wrote it?
He writes music?
This man, who drives me insane and works drafting prenups, writes music that sounds like heartbreak and hope had a baby. I’m sorry, but what?
“It’s beautiful.” The words feel inadequate, too small for what I’m feeling.
“It’s yours.”
The words land between us like a grenade. The air leaves my lungs.
“What?”
“For the ceremony.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “If you want it. For the... you know. Prelude music. While people are sitting.”
“You’re giving me your song?” My voice pitches up, incredulous.
“It’s just notes, Poppy. No big deal.” But the muscle in his jaw jumps, betraying him.
Except it is. It’s the biggest deal. It’s Dean Whitaker cracking himself open and handing me pieces I didn’t even know existed.
“POPPY!” Ivy’s voice carries from the house, shrill with pre-wedding panic. “WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU!”
Reality crashes back. I’m working. This is a job. I have responsibilities.
“Shit. I have to—” I gesture vaguely toward the chaos, the house, my actual purpose here.
“Go.” His voice is gentle, understanding. “Before she sends a search party.”
I turn to leave. Make it three steps, grass crunching under my heels. Turn back.
“Dean?”
“Mm?” He looks up again, waiting.
“Thank you.”
He looks at me. Does that thing where his eyes say everything his mouth won’t. The intensity of it hits me in the chest, steals my breath. I feel it everywhere.
“Go,” he says softly. “We’ll be here.”
I go.
But I can hear his music following me. A song he wrote years ago that he’s playing now, for me, and I know—I know—I’m completely screwed.
Because how do you not fall in love with a man who resurrects his buried dreams just to save yours?
Twenty-eight minutes until showtime. Ivy’s pacing in the bridal suite like a caged leopard in Vera Wang, the dress swishing with each agitated turn.
“Where were you?” She spins, veil whipping around, nearly taking out a lamp. “I’m freaking out. What if Mason changes his mind? What if I trip? What if—”
“Breathe.” I grab her shoulders, grounding her. “Dean and Mason are playing music for your ceremony.”
She blinks, the words not computing. “What?”
“Guitar and bass. They learned all your songs this morning.” I squeeze her shoulders gently.
“Dean’s playing guitar?” Her voice goes up an octave.
“Apparently.” I’m still processing it myself.
Her face does something complicated—surprise melting into understanding, then into something soft and knowing. “Oh. Oh, Poppy.”
“What?” I don’t like that tone. That’s the tone of someone who sees too much.
She’s still looking at me. Still concerned, eyes too perceptive. “He hasn’t played since Emily.”
The name hits me cold. A bucket of ice water down my spine. “Who’s Emily?”
Ivy sits carefully on the upholstered bench, gathering her skirt with practiced movements. Careful with the dress. “His ex-fiancée, Emily.”
Ex-fiancée. There’s an ex-fiancée?
I sit too, sinking into the nearest chair like my legs have given up. Because, frankly, that does not compute. Dean was engaged? Dean, who acts like feelings are a communicable disease?
“They were together six years,” she continues, staring at her hands.
“Met in law school. Dean was different then. Played music all the time. Open mics, little gigs. He was gonna—” She stops, swallows hard.
Clears her throat. “Anyway. They got engaged. Had a loft downtown. Two weeks before the wedding, she left.”
“She left?” My voice sounds hollow.
Ivy stands, walks toward the mirror, adjusting her veil with shaking fingers. “Just… left. Said she’d fallen out of love. That he was too much. Too intense. Too… Dean.”
My chest hurts. Actually physically hurts, like something’s squeezing my ribs. “That’s—” Of course he’s too Dean. But, like… maybe in a good way?
“She took half his savings, maxed out their joint cards, and moved to Seattle with some tech guy she’d been seeing.” Ivy’s voice is flat, reciting facts.
“She cheated?” The word tastes bitter.
“For months, apparently.” Ivy’s fixing her lipstick, but her eyes are on me in the mirror, watching my reaction. “Dean packed up the guitar that day along with anything else that reminded him of her. Haven’t seen it since.”
Until today.
Until I needed help.
The weight of that settles over me like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer.
She turns, meeting my eyes directly. “Because that man out there? The one who just excavated six years of buried grief to play at my wedding? He didn’t do it for me.”
“Ivy—” I start to protest, but she cuts me off.
“He did it for you.” She straightens, smooths her dress with decisive movements. “And if you let him get away because you’re scared? I will haunt your ass from beyond the grave.”
“You’re not dying.” But my voice shakes.
“Metaphorically haunt. With strongly worded texts.” She’s smiling now, but her eyes are serious.
My brain feels scrambled, thoughts tumbling over each other. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“So?” She tilts her head, waiting.
“So what’s the point of—”
“The point?” She grabs my hands. Hard. Her grip is almost painful. “The point is he chose you over his own pain. Do you get that? He literally picked emotional torture because you needed him.”
Something weird pinches in my chest, sharp and insistent. “That’s not—”
“Two minutes!” CeCe bursts in, breathless. “Holy shit, you look gorgeous. Also, Dean’s playing guitar? What the hell? He’s good. Also also, we need to go. Like, now.”
Ivy takes a last look in the mirror. Breathes deep, centering herself. Smiles—and it transforms her face. She’s a stunning bride. Olive skin glowing, perfect makeup, shiny black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her dress is a freaking dream—all lace and silk and fairy tale magic.
“Let’s do this.”
We file out. Me first, checking my clipboard one last time. Then the bridesmaids in their blush pink, giggling nervously. Then CeCe, winking at me. Ivy and her dad wait at the top of the aisle, and I can see him squeezing her hand.
And Dean starts playing.
Not the processional yet. That other song. His song. The one he wrote years ago that sounds like every feeling he’s ever buried trying to claw its way out.
It’s gorgeous.
And perfect.
And so achingly beautiful, I have to press my hand to my chest to keep my heart from breaking out of my rib cage.
I stop breathing.
“You good?” CeCe whispers, close to my ear.
No. I’m not good. I’m standing at the edge of something massive and terrifying, and I don’t have a parachute. I’m watching the man who posted about me on Reddit play music he buried with his broken engagement, and I’m supposed to get on a plane tomorrow like none of this happened.
“Fine,” I lie, the word barely making it past my lips.
I close my eyes and take a breath, trying to think through all the things I need to do next. Check on the reception space, make sure the DJ is ready, coordinate with the caterers, ensure the cake is properly displayed.
But I can’t focus because all I can hear is his music. The melody wraps around me like arms, like a promise, like a question I don’t know how to answer.
And I’m starting to think it might follow me all the way to Italy.
Hell, who am I kidding?
It’s going to follow me everywhere.