Chapter Four
Everything Is Under Control (It Isn’t)
Dean
I’m about to close my laptop when something catches my eye through the window.
She’s still out there, sitting on the guest house steps in the dark. Not on her phone. Just… sitting. With her head in her hands.
I should go to bed. I should mind my own business. I should definitely not care that a woman who tracked dog shit through my life is having a moment.
But Muffin’s already waddling toward the door, whining.
“You’re not going out there,” I tell her.
She scratches at the door, insistent.
“Fine. But we’re not talking to her.”
I open the door. Muffin shoots out like a furry missile, straight toward Poppy.
Traitor.
I follow because apparently, I make excellent decisions at 11 p.m.
The moonlight catches her as I approach, and I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.
She’s the kind of pretty that few men can resist—large blue eyes fringed with dark lashes and a mouth that lifts into a smile easily and often—though not tonight.
Silky golden hair falls past her shoulders, catching the light even in darkness. Curves made for a man’s hands.
A dangerous combination for sure. Good thing I’ve always been good at locking down anything resembling a wayward emotion.
She doesn’t look up when Muffin reaches her. She automatically reaches down to pet her, and that’s when I see it.
Her hand is shaking.
“You okay?” The words spill out before I can stop them.
She jumps and quickly wipes her face. “Geez. You scared me.”
“Sorry. Muffin insisted.”
“Right. The dog made you come check on me.” But there’s no bite to it. She sounds… tired. Defeated, even. Nothing like the woman who marched up my driveway this afternoon in eight-hundred-dollar shoes with unshakeable confidence.
I should leave. This isn’t my problem. She’s not my problem.
Instead, I notice the papers scattered beside her—vendor contracts, seating charts, all covered in notes in three different colors of ink.
“That’s a lot of detail work for someone with a full team,” I say.
She freezes.
Just for a second. But I catch it—the telltale stillness of someone whose lie has been spotted.
“My team’s… handling other things,” she says carefully.
It’s a lie. I know lies; I catalog them for a living. The slight hesitation, the way her fingers tighten on the papers, the forced casual tone—all of it screams deception.
“Right.” I glance at the papers again and spot it—a bank statement sticking out from under a contract. Multiple overdraft fees. Final notice stamps. A financial disaster that would send someone running to a faraway estate to pull off a society wedding on their own come hell or high water.
Damn.
She follows my gaze and quickly shoves the papers into a folder, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the truth she’s trying so hard to hide.
“I should—” She stands too fast and stumbles slightly.
I catch her elbow, steadying her. The contact sends heat crawling up my forearm, and I’m suddenly aware of how soft her skin is, how she smells like something floral and expensive, and how easy it would be to pull her closer instead of letting go.
Once she’s steady, I release my hold and shove my hands in my pockets where they can’t betray me.
She looks up at me then, those large eyes wide and vulnerable in the moonlight, and I know I’m in trouble. Because behind all that beauty is something worse—someone real. Someone struggling. Someone who’s trying so damn hard to keep it together that she’s sitting alone in the dark, shaking.
This week just got complicated in a way I didn’t budget for.
The conference room is glass-walled and quiet, save for the rhythmic tap of my pen against the edge of my legal pad.
Across the table, two junior associates shift uncomfortably in their seats. One of them clears his throat; the other blinks too much. I don’t bother learning their names until they give me a reason to.
“I’m going to say this once,” I begin, setting the pen down.
“This client is our white whale. He’s angry, powerful, and rich enough to weaponize that anger in any jurisdiction he chooses.
If we don’t control the narrative—immediately—he will.
And we will be the ones holding a bag full of unpaid invoices and NDAs. ”
The blinking one nods, scribbling furiously. The other one suggests reconvening after lunch.
It’s already 2:10.
I haven’t eaten. Again.
The tension behind my eyes has blossomed into a full-scale headache, pulsing behind my left temple like a second heartbeat. I should care. I don’t. I’ve gone twelve hours on less.
We wrap up the meeting. I hand off notes to my paralegal, ignore the now-cold coffee someone left at my desk, and scroll through a backlog of client emails and calendar alerts—then I see a text from my brother.
MASON: Bro, we need to talk. Call me.
I stare at it for exactly three seconds before exhaling slowly through my nose and getting up from my chair.
The hallway outside is glossy and sterile, gray floors, frosted glass, hushed voices. My domain.
I step into a small side office, close the door behind me, and call.
He answers immediately.
“Mase—what’s the problem?”
“You told Poppy she couldn’t use the north lawn?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Poppy? Oh yeah, the wedding planner from hell. “The slope is dangerous, Mason. The roots are exposed. I’m not risking a lawsuit because your fiancée likes the lighting.”
“She doesn’t just like it, man. She’s been dreaming about that ceremony spot for months. It’s not about lighting—it’s about her.”
“I said no.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re doing everyone a favor just by showing up. Like saying yes to this wedding means you can say no to every other detail without question.”
I sit on the edge of the desk, my headache pulsing harder now. “I let you use the estate, Mason. I cleared my schedule. I didn’t even charge you.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No—you just asked for everything else.”
The silence stretches long enough that I almost think he’s going to hang up.
Then, softer, he says, “You know this isn’t about the lawn, right?”
I close my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
And I do. It’s about the fact that I always put work first. That I don’t show up unless I’m needed. That I’m halfway through a name-partner-making case while he’s planning a wedding, and it feels like we live on different planets.
But I can’t be the guy who’s sentimental. That’s never been my role.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
Mason exhales. “Thank you.”
“I said I’ll see.”
“Still a win.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
I sit there for a long minute, staring at my reflection in the dark glass of the window.
Then I get up and go back to work.
Because that’s what I do.
By five, my head is pounding, my inbox resembles a war zone, and my assistant informs me she’s ordering dinner because I forgot that food is a thing humans need to function.
Again.
I should have known the day was going to be bad when the printer in the copy room started smoking, or when the two junior associates nearly tanked a brief with a formatting error, or when Feldstein chewed me out on speakerphone in front of a client.
So when I finally arrive home and spot the enormous cardboard box sitting on my front porch, nearly blocking my path to the door, my first reaction is not curiosity—it’s suspicion.
The label reads, RUSTIC BLISS EVENTS.
Of course it does.
I step closer, and there it is in black blocky print: “Ceremony Arch – Assembly Required.”
Fantastic.
I unlock the door, toe it open, and manage to carry the box inside, slamming it a little harder than necessary against the wall by the entry.
Muffin lifts her head from the rug and yawns, unimpressed.
“You could’ve warned me,” I mutter.
She flops back down.
I kick off my shoes, drop my bag by the couch, and head to the kitchen, where a brown paper bag waits on the counter. Thai, judging by the smell.
Thanks, Carly.
My assistant had dinner delivered.
I grab a fork and shovel half the container into my mouth before I even pour a drink. It’s barely warm. I don’t care.
After a few minutes, I exhale, finally slowing down enough to register my own exhaustion.
The day from hell.
Feldstein moved up the timeline on the revised motion. A key witness canceled last minute. And the client—the one who could make or break my future at the firm—sent a four-word email that simply said, “Your strategy better work.”
No pressure.
I wash my hands, pour two fingers of whiskey, and walk toward the window.
Outside, the light is starting to change. The estate is quiet.
Too quiet.
Except for the giant cardboard reminder that this place doesn’t belong to me this week.
I glance at Muffin.
She blinks.
I head for the back door, whiskey in hand.
It’s time to take a walk.
Not to change my mind, but to verify what I already know—the north lawn is a logistical nightmare.
The sun is just starting to dip as I head back out.
I tell myself I’m checking the drainage slope and sprinkler layout. I tell myself I’m being thorough, responsible, and cautious. I tell myself this has nothing to do with Mason’s phone call.
Damn, Mason.
Muffin trails behind me like a heat-seeking meatloaf.
We round the hedges near the edge of the north lawn, and I stop.
I don’t want to admit it, but… yeah. It’s beautiful.
The way the trees frame the view. The light filtering through the leaves. That soft hush of wind right before sunset. It feels like a wedding spot.
If someone believed in such things as weddings.
A giant waste of money—says the man who spends his days drafting prenups or strategizing nasty divorces.
Still, my jaw tightens. The slope isn’t terrible, but it’s not ideal. The tree roots could trip someone if they’re not careful. And I don’t love the idea of guests trampling over this part of the grounds.
But would it really be that hard to level the chairs? Move the arch over a few feet?
I exhale slowly and rake a hand through my hair.
“Am I insane?” I mutter.
Muffin huffs once and sits at my feet.
I look down at her.
“You get that this isn’t about the lawn, right?” I murmur. “It’s about boundaries. Structure. Not letting people walk all over me because they smile pretty and carry clipboards.”
She tilts her head.
“She shows up late, tracks mud into the house, rearranges the porch chairs, and now she wants the lawn too.”
I crouch next to the dog and rub behind her ears.
“She’s chaos in lipstick. You know that, right?”
Muffin blinks and leans her whole weight against my side.
“And she brought four bags,” I add. “Who packs four bags?”
Muffin’s got nothing.
“She said you fell asleep under her bed, you little traitor.”
“You really can’t blame her for that.”
The voice behind me makes me go still.
I stand slowly, turn, and find Poppy halfway down the path, arms crossed and expression unreadable.
She’s wearing a soft blue dress—nothing flashy.
It’s simple and casual, but it moves with her, swaying just enough to distract me.
It’s paired with floral-printed designer tennis shoes.
Her hair is down today, and I realize how long it is—nearly reaching her elbows and golden when it catches the light.
“She packs four bags,” she continues, “because she’s running a 300-person event on her own, with backup supplies for every possible disaster scenario. Including, apparently, one grumpy man.”
I lift a brow.
She steps forward, then kneels to scratch Muffin’s chin.
“Hi again,” she says softly.
Muffin lets out a contented groan, as if she’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “You spying on me now?”
“You were muttering to a dog about my luggage. Kind of hard to miss.”
I glance away, my jaw ticking.
“I wasn’t—”
She stands. “Look, I know you’re just trying to protect the property, and that this week is probably the last thing you want. But I’m not here to ruin your house. I’m here to give Mason and Ivy the wedding they’ve dreamed about.”
Her voice softens slightly. “I think they deserve that.”
I study her for a moment.
Then I nod—once, short and clipped. “I’ll figure something out.”
She blinks. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t get excited. It’s not a yes.”
“But it’s not a no.”
I give her a firm look. “It’s a conditional maybe.”
Just as Poppy opens her mouth to say something else—something smug, probably—we hear it.
“Muffin? Muuuuuffinnn?”
I close my eyes.
Poppy tilts her head. “Friend of yours?”
Over the hedge comes the unmistakable sound of Velcro sandals slapping against the ground. Moments later, Nadine emerges on the path, visor cocked to one side and wearing what I can only assume are orthopedic walking shoes.
She stops when she sees us.
“Oh.” She glances between me and Poppy, her tone already loaded with meaning. “Well. Isn’t this cozy.”
“Nadine,” I say tightly.
“Muffin wandered off again,” she says, heading closer. “You know how she gets. Separation anxiety, gut sensitivity—all the things.”
Muffin, traitorous as ever, lets out a happy grunt from where she’s now firmly planted on Poppy’s feet.
Nadine squints. “She likes you.”
“She’s perfect,” Poppy says with a warm smile, bending down to scratch Muffin’s ears. “We bonded.”
“Oh, I can tell,” Nadine replies, as if that’s not a compliment. She turns back to me. “This one’s new.”
I grit my teeth. “This is Poppy Monroe. She’s the wedding planner.”
Poppy extends her hand, radiating sunshine and professionalism. “Hi! Nice to meet you.”
Nadine ignores the handshake entirely.
“She doesn’t look like a wedding planner,” she remarks.
I lift an eyebrow. “What does a wedding planner look like, Nadine?”
“Less… California,” she replies, adjusting her visor as if she’s just delivered a critical diagnosis. “You know. Less leggy, more librarian.”
Poppy smiles politely, but her grip on Muffin tightens slightly.
“Anyway,” Nadine continues, already pulling out her phone. “If Muffin’s going to be over here all the time—and she is, let’s be honest—you should really brush her out. She gets mats, especially when she’s emotional.”
“I’ll pencil it in,” I mutter.
“Oh, and I hope she didn’t interrupt anything.” Nadine gives a little wave, already turning back toward the hedge. “Although judging by the tension in the air, I’d say someone just got told no.”
Poppy blinks. “Excuse me?”
Nadine is already halfway gone. “Good night, kids!”
She disappears, orthopedic shoes thudding down the path like a drumbeat of doom.
I stare after her, my jaw clenched.
Next to me, Poppy stifles a laugh. Barely.
“She’s a lot,” she says.
“That’s rich,” I mutter.
Muffin lets out a sigh.
And Poppy?
She smiles again.
And I hate how much I don’t hate it.