Chapter Nine
Champagne and Chaos
Poppy
By morning, the lawn is pristine, the goat is nowhere to be seen, and I’ve already reorganized the seating chart twice.
Everything looks fine.
Which is exactly why I don’t trust it.
I walk up the path toward the main house, armed with two printed vendor schedules and a backup roll of washi tape. The plan is to check in with Dean, confirm the delivery window for the lighting crew, and not let him get under my skin.
Easy. Totally doable.
I knock lightly on the front door, expecting to hear him bark something like “What now?”
Instead, I hear… nothing.
His SUV is here, parked right where he left it last night.
I knock again and step inside.
“Hey, I have a quick—”
I stop. Blink.
Muffin is lying belly-up in the middle of Dean’s sleek, overly serious office rug—legs in the air, paws twitching as if she’s dreaming of world domination. And Dean is crouched beside her, mid-rub, giving her a tender, slow-motion belly scratch.
She is, clearly, living her best life.
“…uh. I’ll come back,” I say.
Dean looks up.
“She broke into my house again.”
I tilt my head. “She’s like ten pounds. I’m pretty sure she can’t break anything.”
“She wheezed until I opened the door. It was either let her in or get sued for emotional distress.”
He stands, brushing dog hair off his perfectly pressed slacks. Muffin wheezes louder, like she’s personally offended by the lack of follow-through.
“Do I smell… salmon?” I ask.
He sighs like this is the weight he must bear. “CBD-infused smoked salmon treats. Nadine says they mellow her chakras.”
I blink. “You’re trying to calm Muffin’s chakras?”
“She took them. I was… tricked.”
“Uh-huh.”
He adjusts his shirt collar, then smooths his hair even though it doesn’t need it. There’s something odd about him this morning—stiffer than usual. Like he’s trying too hard to be casual, which—fun fact—makes him weirder.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
That was fast. Too fast. Definitely not fine.
I give him a long, slow once-over. His sleeves are rolled up neatly. His jaw is tight. His eyes are doing that I’m fine but also having a quiet existential crisis thing.
Dean Whitaker is acting weird.
And I don’t know why.
But I do know I’m going to find out.
He’s still frowning when I sit down across from him and pull out my clipboard.
“Okay, since I’m here and Muffin has had her chakra realignment for the day, can we run through a few quick things?”
He hesitates.
I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you have a goat therapy session scheduled next?”
That earns me a look—classic Dean. Flat and withering, but the corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting off an eye roll.
“Fine,” he mutters. “What now?”
“Power access,” I say, flipping a page. “The band’s arriving Friday for rehearsal, and I need to ensure we have an outdoor power source they can tap into. Preferably something that isn’t also powering your security cameras and outdoor lighting.”
He exhales and leans back in his chair. “Fine. There’s an outdoor breaker panel on the west side of the house. I’ll unlock it.”
“Perfect. AV needs a staging area for the speakers and cables. I was thinking to the right of the arch, but I wanted to check with you first.”
“That’s fine—just keep them off the flowerbeds. George’s mishap with the tulip massacre is already costing me an arm and a leg.”
I scribble a note. “Done. Next, cords.”
His brows lift. “Cords?”
“Yes, as in—what are people tripping over? Where are we routing the wires? How do we keep your liability insurance intact?”
His eye twitches slightly, and I call that a win.
“We’ll need access to the garage for a few cable covers,” I add sweetly. “Unless you’d prefer your guests to surf their way across live wires in heels.”
“Is electrocution part of the theme?”
“It is now.”
He exhales sharply. That almost sounded like a laugh.
I’m about to move on when I remember the big one.
“Oh! And where do you want the luxury porta-potties?”
He goes still. “The what?”
“The luxury porta-potties,” I repeat cheerfully. “Climate-controlled. Bluetooth-enabled. Ivy picked them out. They arrive Friday.”
Dean looks genuinely rattled.
“Why are they Bluetooth-enabled?”
“I didn’t ask. I was too busy wondering if they also have voice activation and mood lighting.”
He glares at me.
“You can’t have 300 people traipsing inside your house to use the restroom. It’s better this way.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I let them talk me into this.”
“You let her talk you into this,” I say gently.
His expression softens for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I did.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us realizing that this week has been even more unhinged than we anticipated.
I nudge my clipboard toward him. “So, where do you want them?”
He doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at me—really looks—and I feel it like a static charge.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says.
“Am I?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second.
I smile. “I mean… I could put them right in front of the house if you’d like.”
“Try it,” he says, his voice low. “See what happens.”
Muffin groans from under the desk, tired of being around whatever this is.
This tension between us—it’s undeniable.
I grin, stand, and tap my pen against the clipboard. “Think about it. I’ll be back later. Oh, by the way, George is supposed to be picked up after lunch.”
“Finally,” he mutters. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”
It’s 1:47 p.m.
George was supposed to be picked up after lunch.
It is currently… after lunch.
He is still here.
Not just here, but perched like a bearded overlord on top of a folding table, chewing aggressively on a discarded ribbon spool and ignoring every single one of my increasingly desperate bribes.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I mutter, shaking a small bucket of grain the farm left behind. “Come on, George. Be cool.”
George snorts.
I lower the bucket and glance across the lawn toward the house. Dean is pacing, his tie half-undone, sleeves rolled up, and eyes fixed on his phone as if he can will the goat removal team into existence. He’s muttering under his breath. I catch the word lawsuit.
Muffin, for the record, is hiding somewhere inside. She wants no part of this. Smart girl.
“I called them again,” Dean calls out, looking up. “Still no answer.”
“Maybe they got stuck in traffic,” I offer weakly.
“Or maybe this is a prank and I now own livestock.”
“Could be worse,” I say. “You could own two.”
Dean shoots me a look that could curdle milk.
And that’s when it happens.
A car pulls into the driveway. At first, I think—finally. The goat farm. George is saved. We’re saved. But it’s not a pickup truck. It’s a sleek SUV with tinted windows.
The door opens.
Ivy climbs out in the cutest yellow sundress, big sunglasses, and a perfect messy bun that definitely took a professional forty-five minutes to create.
Mason gets out next, guitar case in one hand, coffee in the other, grinning like he’s arriving at summer camp.
“Surprise!” Ivy calls, waving.
Dean and I both freeze.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Dean mutters something I won’t repeat in polite company and immediately starts walking toward them.
Too late. George leaps from the table, hits the grass with a thunk, and bolts in a half-circle—directly toward Ivy.
Mason yelps. Ivy shrieks. Dean sprints.
And I’m left holding a grain bucket, wondering if this wedding has an exorcism package I forgot to check off.
Two minutes later, George is finally wrangled—barely—and tied to the porch post with a length of garden twine I truly hope will hold. Because if not—heaven help us all.
Ivy fans herself with a sample program, visibly rattled but holding it together in that cool-girl influencer way.
Mason, bless him, is laughing. Of course he is.
“Was that… a goat?” Ivy asks, pulling off her sunglasses.
Dean adjusts his collar. “He’s being picked up. Allegedly.”
I step forward, clipboard in hand, ready to salvage what I can. “You’re early! We thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“I wanted to see the space, and I couldn’t wait,” Ivy admits. “Mason said you had everything under control.”
Dean looks at me. “Define control.”
I ignore him. “Let me show you around.”
Mason grins.
Dean closes his eyes briefly, as if negotiating with the universe.
I lean in. “Hey,” I whisper, “remember how relieved you were when I said George was getting picked up?”
Dean doesn’t respond, just glares.
George lets out a triumphant bleat behind us, as if he knows exactly what he’s done.
Once George is secured, there’s a pause. A silence.
Dean runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “Well. You’re here now.”
I glance at Ivy and Mason, then back at him.
He sighs. “How about a toast? I think I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the wine fridge.”
Ivy perks up. Mason immediately says, “Yes. Thank you.”
I’m about to politely excuse myself—because surely this is a family thing, and I’m still faintly goat-scented—when Dean turns to me.
“Poppy?”
My head lifts. “Me?”
He nods. “You’re part of the chaos. Might as well raise a glass to it.”
For reasons I don’t fully understand, that one sentence shifts something in my chest. I follow them inside.
Dean’s house is not what I expected.
It’s warm, quiet, and lived-in without being cluttered.
Built-ins along the walls are filled with books and records.
Soft leather couches invite relaxation. Framed black-and-white photographs, likely expensive, adorn the walls.
Everything smells faintly of cedar, soap, and something citrusy that I refuse to find attractive.
Until now, I’ve only seen the entryway. The guest house felt like a cozy Airbnb, but this feels like him.
There’s a piano in the corner. Of course there is. A dark upright with stacked sheet music beside it and a brass lamp perched on top, suggesting it’s used regularly.
Dean disappears into the kitchen and returns with four crystal champagne flutes.
Ivy pops the cork with a grin and pours, the fizz filling the silence.
We gather in the living room—Mason on the couch, Ivy curled beside him, Dean standing near the window with one hand in his pocket and a glass in the other. I perch on the edge of a leather chair, pretending not to notice how the cushions sink just enough to throw me off balance.
“To the bride and groom,” Dean says, raising his glass.
We all echo the toast.
I sip. It’s cold, fizzy, and delicious.
Now that the adrenaline from their surprise arrival has worn off, I finally get a moment to look at Ivy and Mason properly.
They’re infuriatingly perfect.
Ivy, sipping from her glass, tucks a tendril of hair behind one ear, her skin practically glowing. She makes “bridal” look effortless—like it’s always been part of her DNA.
And Mason? He’s tall, nearly as tall as Dean, but scruffy, with sun-streaked curls shoved under a backward baseball cap.
He’s dressed in a T-shirt, and his jeans are ripped at the knees in that “on purpose” kind of way.
Ivy is polished and sweet, while Mason exudes charming boyish energy. They are adorable together.
I take another sip and feel Dean’s eyes on me.
So I focus on my champagne.
The bubbles hit immediately.
And wow. Have I eaten today? Do goat-related cardio bursts burn more calories than I realized? Because three sips in, I’m feeling it—light, warm, and maybe slightly floaty.
Dean catches me looking at the piano.
“You play?” he asks, his tone casual.
I shake my head. “No. But I pretend I can every December when I try to learn Christmas carols and give up by New Year’s Eve.”
His mouth twitches. “Tragic.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to conquer ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ since 2014.”
Ivy watches us from the rim of her glass, her gaze sharp and knowing, but she doesn’t say anything.
Yet.
Dean looks at me again—not a quick glance, not annoyance—just… looking. Like he’s trying to figure something out and is annoyed that he can’t.
I take another sip.
The room feels warmer now.
Mason’s telling a story—something about how he proposed to Ivy and accidentally dropped the ring in a bowl of pasta. Ivy’s groaning and laughing. The moment’s easy. Unstaged.
I glance at Dean.
He’s not laughing. Not really. But there’s something there—a shift, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.
“You should try smiling more,” I tease. “It’s good for your blood pressure.”
“Is that a medical opinion?”
“That’s a ‘your jaw is permanently clenched’ opinion.”
He exhales—a quiet little sound—but I sense there’s something deep beneath his stony surface. He’s like an iceberg.
I take another sip of champagne, my eyes on Dean. “Do you even like weddings?”
He huffs. “I like contracts. And prenups. And legal briefs.”
“So that’s a no.”
He doesn’t look at me when he replies, but I hear the shift in his voice. “I like the idea of someone believing in something that much.”
I blink.
Then he actually does smile—small, lazy, and completely unexpected—and it hits me, all at once, how stupidly cute he is when he forgets to be annoyed with me.
Yep. Champagne’s gone straight to my head.
“I’m just gonna—yeah,” I murmur, standing a little too fast. “Get back to work.”
I step outside into the afternoon sun, hoping the air will clear my head and maybe cool the flush rising up my neck. It doesn’t.
Dean’s smile—real, fleeting, totally unsanctioned—is still playing in my head.
Stupid smile.
Stupid face.
I shouldn’t have had that glass of champagne.
I make it halfway across the lawn before I hear the door creak open behind me.
“Poppy,” Ivy calls.
I stop, square my shoulders, and turn with a polite smile. “Hey.”
She strolls over, champagne glass still in hand, her designer sandals somehow not sinking into the grass like mine did an hour ago.
When she reaches me, she loops her arm through mine as if we’re old friends, rather than people who’ve only had three Zoom meetings and an email chain 87 messages deep.
“Okay,” she says in a low, conspiratorial voice, glancing toward the house. “What’s the deal?”
“With what?” I ask, even though I already know.
“With my future brother-in-law…”
“Dean?”
She smirks. “He’s being weird.”
“He’s always weird.”
“Weirder than usual,” she replies. “Not in a bad way—just in a has he always had that jawline and tension kind of way.”
I pause. “Did you just say jawline and tension?”
“I’m just saying.” She raises her hands, mock-innocent. “If he weren’t already family—”
“Ivy.”
She winks. “What? I’m just saying, that man is not indifferent to you.”
“No, he’s just…” I trail off, staring at nothing. “Stressed.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her champagne. “And cute, apparently.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I groan, tug my arm from hers, and head for the tent. “I have things to do.”
“Don’t worry,” Ivy calls after me. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”
I don’t look back, but I can feel her grin chasing me all the way across the lawn.