Chapter Twenty-Five Perfect Chaos
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perfect Chaos
Poppy
The sun’s doing that golden hour thing where everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey and Instagram filters.
I’m standing at the edge of the reception tent, clipboard abandoned somewhere between the cake cutting and my second glass of champagne, watching my perfectly planned wedding become something else entirely.
Something better.
Mason’s got Ivy on the dance floor, spinning her like they’re in their own music video. Her dress flares out. He dips her. She laughs so hard she snorts. Three of her influencer friends are filming, but she doesn’t even notice.
That’s love, I think. When you forget about the cameras. When you forget about everything except the man in front of you.
“Miss?” A server appears with another champagne flute. “From the gentleman at table twelve.”
I don’t need to look. Table twelve is where Dean’s been holding court with his grandmother, who’s had four martinis and is now telling anyone who’ll listen about Dean’s “awkward phase.”
But I look anyway.
He’s loosened his tie. Ditched his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, because apparently he’s trying to kill me. His hair is slightly tousled now. And he’s watching me with this expression that makes my stomach do stupid things. Idiotic things.
I raise the glass in a mock toast. He smirks.
God help me.
“Poppy!” Gloria materializes in a cloud of patchouli and silk. “The flowers are still perfect!”
Facts. “That’s because you’re a genius.”
“True.” She links her arm through mine. “But also because you knew exactly what you wanted. Even when you didn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does.” She nods toward Dean. “Like him.”
“We’re not talking about—”
“You’ve been not talking about him all night.” She steals my champagne. “While he’s been not looking at you from across every room.”
My stomach bottoms out. “He’s looking at me right now.”
“Mhmm. Like you’re dessert and he’s been on a diet.”
“Gloria.”
“What? I have eyes. That man wants to eat you alive.”
I choke on air. “Can we not—”
My phone buzzes.
It’s Miranda.
Shit.
I’m standing at the edge of the tent, watching everything sparkle—candles flickering, music drifting, the bride glowing like a fairy tale—and Miranda freaking Coleman who fired me is calling.
I let it go to voicemail.
She calls again.
I roll my eyes and answer. “Let me guess—you saw the social media posts?”
A tight laugh. “I always knew you had it in you, Poppy. Truly. The vision, the execution—it’s impressive.”
“That’s funny,” I say. “Because last I checked, you fired me for letting a Pomeranian eat a cake. But now you want to talk because there are a million people gushing online about this wedding?”
She powers through it. “You’ve made quite the splash. If you’re open to it, I’d love to talk about bringing you back. Under the Coleman Events umbrella, of course. Think of the exposure—”
“Oh, Miranda.” I sigh like I’m bored. “You taught me so much. Like how to smile while being undermined. And how not to seat the mistress at the family table.”
She’s quiet.
I smile, slow and sharp. “But I think I’m good. I’m building something of my own now. It’s called freedom. You should try it sometime.”
Then I hang up, rename her contact to: Miranda – Do Not Resurrect, and toss my phone back in my bag just in time to hear Gloria chuckling.
“Oh look, the goat’s being photogenic.”
I glance over to where she’s pointing. And she’s right. George—who has spent the entire week being a terrorist—has chosen this exact moment to become a Disney character. He’s grazing on the hill behind the tent, silhouetted against the sunset like he’s posing for a wedding blog.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter.
“Even chaos behaves when it matters,” Gloria says. “Speaking of which…”
Dean’s walking over. Of course he is. Because my body language probably screams ‘please come make this more complicated.’
“Ladies.” He stops just close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s crisp and perfect and way too distracting. “Gloria, beautiful work on the flowers.”
“I know.” She doesn’t do false modesty. “Though Poppy deserves the credit. She has exquisite taste.”
They both look at me. I suddenly need to be anywhere else.
“I should check on—”
“Everything’s perfect.” Dean’s voice is soft. Different. I love it way more than is possibly healthy. “Stop working.”
“I’m not working. I’m… observing.” But the lie sounds weak even to me.
“You’re hiding.” He says it gently, but it still lands like an accusation.
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not—”
“Poppy.” He steps closer. “Take the compliment. You did it. Look around.”
So I do.
Really look.
The tent glows with the fairy lights I fought to hang at midnight. The centerpieces Gloria and I designed catch the light just right. The dance floor is packed. People are laughing. Ivy’s mom is teaching Dean’s mom some TikTok dance, which should be horrifying but is actually hilarious.
It’s… perfect.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is right by my ear. When did he get that close? “Oh.”
Gloria clears her throat. “I’m gonna go dance with that silver fox at the bar. You two… continue whatever this is.”
She floats away, leaving us standing too close while the world happens around us.
“You played guitar,” I say, because apparently I can’t let it go.
“You noticed.” His tone is careful, guarded.
“Dean.” I turn to face him fully, forcing him to look at me.
He meets my eyes for a beat, then looks away. “What?”
“You know what.” My voice drops, softer now.
He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Ivy told me about Emily.”
He goes still. That scary kind of still that means he’s processing seventeen emotions at once.
“Ivy talks too much.” The words come out tight, clipped.
“She said you haven’t played since—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Poppy.” He turns to face me fully, jaw set. “Do we have to do this now?”
“When else? I leave tomorrow.” The reminder sits heavy between us.
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or resignation. “Right. Italy.”
“Dean—” I reach for him without thinking, but he’s already moving.
“Dance with me.”
I blink at the sudden shift. “What?”
“Dance. With me.” He holds out a hand, his expression unreadable. “Unless you’re too busy observing.”
I should say no. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember this is complicated and I’m leaving and he’s still dealing with what sounds like massive emotional trauma.
Instead, I take his hand, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
He leads me to the dance floor right as the band slides into something slow. Because of course they do. The universe has zero chill.
“Fair warning,” I say as he pulls me close. “I’m terrible at this.”
“Shocking.” He smirks at me. “You’re so coordinated with everything else.”
“Was that… did you just make a joke?” I stare at him, genuinely surprised.
His mouth quirks. “I make jokes.”
“No, you make observations. Jokes are different.” I’m smiling despite myself.
He spins me. Smooth. Practiced. “Maybe you bring out my sense of humor.”
“Or your open bar.”
“That too.”
We’re quiet for a minute. Just swaying while Mason and Ivy have their moment in the middle of the floor, lost in each other.
“She’s happy,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Really happy. Like, disgustingly happy.”
“That’s what love looks like, apparently.”
“You say that like you don’t believe in it.”
His hand tightens on my waist. “I used to.”
“And now?”
He looks down at me. Really looks at me. And for a second, I see everything. The hurt. The hope. The terrifying possibility that maybe he’s starting to believe again.
“Now I think maybe I was just doing it wrong.”
My heart forgets how to beat. “Dean—”
“EVERYONE LOOK AT GEORGE!”
We break apart as the crowd turns toward the hill where George has decided to…
“Is he posing?” Dean asks.
He is. The asshole goat is literally posing against the sunset like he’s auditioning for a Hallmark movie.
“I hate him,” I say.
“No you don’t.” Dean’s watching me, not the goat.
I glare at George, who’s now turned to show his better side. “I really do.”
“You’re taking pictures right now.”
I lower my phone. “Shut up.”
Dean laughs. Real, actual laughter. The sound hits me right in the chest. It’s magnificent. Deep and unfiltered and perfect.
“What?”
“Nothing.” But he’s still smiling. “Just… you. This week. Everything.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
The band starts another song. People drift back to dancing. But we just stand there, him looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s finally solving, me trying not to do something stupid like ask him to come to Italy.
“Poppy! Dean!” Mason appears, flushed and grinning. “Family photo!”
And just like that, the moment breaks.
But as we follow Mason to where the photographer’s setting up, Dean’s hand finds the small of my back. Guiding. Gentle. Possessive in a way that makes me shiver.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
“No.”
“Liar.” He smirks.
“Takes one to know one.”
His thumb traces a small circle through the fabric of my dress. “We’re really doing this? Now? Trading barbs during family photos?”
“You started it.”
“Pretty sure you started it when you showed up with a goat.”
“That was an accident!”
“So you keep saying.”
“PLACES!” The photographer’s waving us around like we’re chess pieces. “Bride and groom center! Family around them! Wedding planner—oh, you’re not family? Well, stay anyway. You look gorgeous in that light.”
I try to step away but Ivy yanks my arm. “She’s practically family. She stays.”
So I end up in the Whitaker family photo, tucked between Dean and Mason while the photographer snaps away and the sun paints everything gold.
“Smile like you mean it,” Dean says under his breath.
“I am smiling.” I keep my face frozen in place, aware of the camera.
He leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. “No, you’re panicking.”
“Same thing.” But my smile softens, becomes real.
“Poppy.” His voice drops. Serious. “You belong here.”
The camera clicks before I can respond. Before I can tell him that belonging somewhere for a week doesn’t mean you get to stay. Before I can ask why he’s making this harder than it needs to be.
“Beautiful!” The photographer’s already moving on. “Now just the brothers!”
I escape to the bar, order something stronger than champagne. CeCe slides up beside me.
“So.”
“Don’t start.” I know that tone. That’s her I-have-opinions tone.
“I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you in a family photo before. Three years and you’ve never once been in a family photo.”
The words hit harder than they should. I grip my glass tighter. “Ivy insisted.”
“Uh-huh.” CeCe’s watching me too closely. “And Dean’s hand on your back? Did Ivy insist on that too?”
I down my drink. “I need you to not.”
“Not what?”
“Not make this into something.”
“Babe.” She turns me to face her. “It’s already something. The question is what you’re gonna do about it.”
Before I can answer, the band announces the last dance. Couples flood the floor. The lights dim to just fairy lights and stars.
And Dean’s there. Again. Always.
“One more?” he asks.
I should say no.
I take his hand instead.
This time when he pulls me close, I let myself feel it. The warmth of him. The way we fit. The absolute certainty that I’m fucked.
Cool.
“Poppy?”
“Mm?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel the tension in his body, like he’s working up to something. “This week…”
“Don’t.” I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “Please. Just… let me have this.”
His arms tighten around me. “Okay.”
We sway while Mason and Ivy kiss under the stars and George provides ambient scenery, and everything is exactly as perfect as I planned.
Except for the part where I’m falling for someone I can’t have.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight? Tonight I’m dancing with Dean Whitaker while the fairy lights blur into stars and his heartbeat keeps time with mine.
And for now, that’s enough.
It has to be.