The Grump Next Door

Chapter One

Still Smiling

Poppy

“You’re fired.”

I’m doing seventy-five on the throughway, wrestling a rental car that smells like beef jerky and bad decisions, when my entire life implodes through the Bluetooth speaker.

“Wait, what?” I swerve slightly. The car behind me honks. “Miranda, the Goldman wedding was perfect—”

“Perfect?” My now-former boss laughs, but it’s a laugh that makes my stomach drop. “You let the mother of the bride’s Pomeranian eat half the cake.”

“That was—”

“You seated the groom’s mistress at the family table.”

“I didn’t know she was—”

“And you told the bride’s father to, and I quote, ‘shove his suggestions up his trust fund.’”

Okay. That one I did do.

“Miranda, please. I have the Lin wedding next weekend. I can’t—”

“It’s nothing personal, Poppy. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.” The line goes dead.

I stare at the road, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. My chest feels too tight. Like someone’s sitting on it. Like I can’t—

No.

No.

I slam my finger on the redial button. Nothing. I call again. Straight to voicemail.

“No.”

The word comes out raw. Broken.

I’ve been at Coleman Events for three years. Three years of sixteen-hour days and bridezilla tantrums and eating lunch out of Tupperware in bathroom stalls because there’s never time to actually sit down. Three years of building my reputation, my client list, my entire future.

And now it’s gone.

My phone buzzes. For one stupid second, I think maybe Miranda’s calling back. Maybe she’s—

IVY LIN: Can’t wait to see you! This is going to be PERFECT!

I laugh. Or maybe it’s a sob. Hard to tell when your whole life is combusting at seventy-five miles per hour.

Because here’s the thing Miranda doesn’t know—I already told Ivy I’d be her planner. Already signed the contract. With my name. Not Coleman Events. She wanted me, personally, and I promised her of course it would be me. I figured Miranda would understand the technicality.

Now things are different. Which means I’m about to show up at this estate to plan a wedding I’m no longer authorized to plan, for a client who thinks I still have a job, without a team, or a clue about what the hell I’m doing.

I should have known today was going to go off the rails. My flight was delayed two hours, I spilled matcha all over my blazer, and the bridesmaid group chat had already imploded twice before I boarded. But I force a smile because this week matters. No—it doesn’t just matter. It’s everything.

Deep breaths, Poppy.

Except the rental car smells like beef jerky and broken dreams.

I breathe anyway.

This isn’t what I reserved. Not even close.

What I reserved was a sleek, all-electric, whisper-quiet SUV that would glide into the Hudson Valley like a glossy, capable adult woman.

What I got was a suspiciously sticky Subaru hatchback with a cracked Bluetooth screen and a backseat full of unidentified crumbs.

Still smiling.

I crank down the windows, because the air freshener smells like meat. I tell myself it’s fine.

It’s fine. Being fired could even turn out to be a good thing.

Right? Right?!

My phone rings again. It’s CeCe. My best friend, moral support system, and the only person I’ve ever met who’s better at dealing with bridal parties than I am.

“Did you know?” I demand.

“Poppy—”

“Did. You. Know?”

A pause. “She called me ten minutes ago. And offered me your job.”

My stomach drops through the floorboard. “And?”

“I told her to get bent, obviously.” Relief floods through me. “Did you tell Ivy?” she asks immediately.

“Tell her what? That I’m unemployed? That I’m about to show up at her wedding with no team, no resources, and no backup?” My laugh sounds unhinged. “Yeah, I’ll just text her real quick. ‘Hey girl! Fun update—your wedding might be a disaster!’”

“Poppy—”

“I can’t lose this wedding, CeCe. I can’t.” My voice cracks. “This was supposed to be it. The one that launched everything.”

“So what’s the plan?”

I glance at my shoes. Eight-hundred-dollar-Louboutins that took me three months to pay off. The red soles that scream I belong here when everything else about me whispers fake.

“Fake it till I make it,” I say. “What else is there?”

“With what team? Poppy, this is insane—”

“I’ll figure it out.” The words come out harder than I mean them to.

CeCe’s quiet for a second, which is slightly unsettling, because of all the things CeCe is, quiet has never been one of them.

“Are you okay?”

“That depends,” I say. “If you count being fired, a crappy rental car, a matcha incident, a group chat implosion…” I tell her everything. By the time I get to the linen mix-up and a bizarre email about live butterflies, CeCe is openly laughing.

“This is going to be your story wedding,” she says. “The one you tell future clients to prove you can handle anything.”

Always looking on the bright side, this one.

“I was kind of hoping that story wouldn’t begin with me being canned.”

CeCe makes a noise of encouragement. “You’ve got this. You’re a freaking ninja with a clipboard. You once ran a beach wedding during a hurricane and still managed to keep the flower girl’s curls intact.”

“True.” I smirk.

“You’re a professional. A magician. A beacon of calm under pressure. And also… slightly terrifying when pushed.”

My smile stretches, real this time. “You’re just saying that because I once made a cake designer cry.”

“You’re my hero,” she says. “Now go charm the pants off the Hudson Valley. Call me tonight and tell me all about your mysterious grump of a property owner.”

Oh. I’d almost forgotten about that.

I’ll be staying in the guest house of the groom’s brother.

Dean Whitaker. A Manhattan divorce attorney who owns the estate and according to my clients, tolerates weddings the way people tolerate dental work.

We haven’t spoken yet, but I’ve seen the emails.

Short. Direct. Zero emojis. He probably irons his socks and uses phrases like per my last message.

In my head, he’s uptight, stiff, probably wears loafers and looks perpetually disappointed. The kind of guy who thinks kombucha is a gateway drug and prefers his coffee black, his shoes polished, and his interactions with people limited.

It’s fine. I’ve dealt with difficult venue managers before. People who think wedding planners are frivolous or invasive or too much.

Dean Whitaker has no idea who he’s dealing with.

The GPS chirps that my exit is in two miles. Two miles until I have to walk into this situation and pretend everything’s fine. Pretend I’m still Poppy Monroe, wedding planner extraordinaire, not Poppy Monroe, unemployed disaster who’s about to commit fraud.

I glance down at my shoes again. Image is everything in this business. Fake it ‘til you make it. Smile ‘til your face cracks.

Speaking of which.

I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and practice. Bright smile. Professional. Capable. Not at all like someone whose entire world just collapsed.

“Hi! I’m Poppy Monroe, your wedding planner! Everything’s perfect! I definitely have a job! And a plan! And my life together!”

Shit.

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it.

Then again. And again.

I finally glance down at it.

Six missed calls. Twelve texts from various vendors. One from my landlord about next month’s rent.

Cool. Cool. Cool.

I take the exit too fast. The tires squeal a little. Whatever. Add it to the rental company’s list of grievances.

The scenery changes from highway to postcard—rolling hills, stone walls, trees that look like they were placed by a set designer. It’s gorgeous. Peaceful. The exact opposite of how I feel.

I roll my shoulders back and take in the scenery of where I’ll be spending the next ten days.

Towering trees and winding roads lined with wildflowers.

The hills ripple gold and green in the late afternoon light, and for a moment, I pretend I’m headed to a wellness retreat.

One where no one’s texting me about linen shortages or whether the girlfriend of a groomsman is allergic to all seven major food groups.

The peace lasts exactly eight seconds before my phone buzzes again.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey just fyi we might need to reassign bridesmaids. Caroline and Zoe are in a feud. Again. No clue why.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Maybe over a dress? Or like… someone’s ex?

I don’t respond.

Because if I respond, I will scream.

The GPS chirps, “You have arrived at your destination.”

I pull up the long gravel driveway and my breath catches a little.

Because—despite everything—it’s stunning.

The estate sits atop of a soft, sloping hill, framed by tall oaks and wild hydrangea.

The main house is older but elegant, all crisp white trim and classic shutters, with ivy crawling up one side like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie.

There’s a detached guest house just beyond a stretch of manicured lawn, the exact right amount of rustic charm.

For a second, I just sit there. Engine running. Staring.

I could leave. Turn around. Drive back to the city and figure out a different life. One that doesn’t involve pretending everything’s fine when it’s all falling apart.

But then I think about Ivy’s texts. Her excitement. The contract with my name on it.

This wedding is happening. It has to.

Because if I pull this off—if I can somehow execute the wedding of the year without a team, without resources, without anything but sheer determination and whatever’s in my emergency kit—then maybe I don’t need Miranda. Maybe I can do this on my own.

Maybe.

I kill the engine, check my face one more time, and open the car door.

Time to fake it like my life depends on it.

Because it basically does.

I step out of the car, smooth my dress, and immediately plant one Louboutin directly into something wet and squishy.

Still smiling.

Absolutely still smiling.

Even if it freaking kills me.

I look down.

“Oh no.”

It’s… not mud. It’s something wetter. More offensive. And deeply unwelcome. Something that was, at one point, probably alive or at least partially digested.

I gag once. Just a little.

But I’m prepared. I’m nothing if not prepared. I yank a biodegradable wipe from my bag and crouch down on the stone path, balancing on one foot like a deranged flamingo as I try to salvage my dignity—and my shoes.

Which is exactly when I hear a voice.

“Can I help you?”

Deep. Male. Annoyed. Very much not the kind of voice that says welcome.

I look up—and nearly lose my balance.

Standing in the doorway of the main house is a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and absurdly good-looking in the kind of way that makes you briefly forget how sentences work.

His dark hair is neatly combed but already threatening to fall out of place.

A five o’clock shadow clings to his sharp jaw like it’s made a permanent home there.

A jawline that makes you reconsider your position on marriage.

His eyes—gray? green? something stormy—are striking enough to make me momentarily forget that my foot is still covered in… something.

He’s wearing khakis and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the kind of casual-office look that he somehow manages to make look intimidating.

This has to be Dean.

The grump. The groom’s brother. The anti-wedding energy Ivy warned me about.

And the universe, in its infinite sense of humor, has made him hot.

He is, objectively, alarmingly attractive. And unfortunately, I’m crouched in front of his house, one foot in the air, my designer shoe covered in shit, my entire life in shambles, trying not to cry.

Cool. This is going great.

So I smile. Bright. Professional. Unbothered. “Hi! I’m Poppy Monroe. Wedding planner for the Lin-Whitaker event next weekend?”

He doesn’t smile back. He just looks at me. “I assumed you’d arrive earlier.”

“I would’ve,” I say, still crouched, still wiping, “but my flight was delayed, and the rental car situation was… character-building.”

His eyes flick to my foot, then back to my face.

I grin, apologetic. “Sorry, I seem to have found a small… welcome gift on the lawn.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a polite flicker. “You’ll be staying in the carriage house. It’s unlocked.”

“Perfect.” I rise to my full height and pretend my left shoe isn’t squelching slightly. “Looking forward to settling in.”

He gestures, vaguely. “Try not to track anything inside.”

And just like that, the hotness dies a swift and fiery death.

I paste on a tight smile, because if I don’t, I might commit murder.

Ivy Lin is one of the biggest influencers on the planet and her wedding will be plastered all over social media.

It’ll be the most beautiful wedding anyone’s ever seen, and it will launch my business into the stratosphere.

I’ll be able to hire assistants and wedding planners to work for me.

They will be the ones stepping in dog shit on grumpy extended family’s properties.

Deep breath.

I yank my rolling luggage from the trunk and I’m halfway up the stone path to the front door when I pause and look around, taking it in—not just as a guest, but as a planner.

The estate is stately but not showy, with symmetrical windows, pale green shutters, and a wraparound porch that could be dressed up with string lights and late-summer florals.

There’s a quiet elegance to it, like it knows it’s beautiful and doesn’t need to try too hard.

There’s even an old wooden bench under the front window that’s practically begging for welcome drinks or a seating chart display.

It’s going to be the perfect wedding.

It has to be.

I have a week and half to make it look like I have my shit together. A week and a half to figure out how to plan the best wedding anyone’s ever seen.

Should be fine.

Everything’s fine.