Chapter Twelve Morning Mayhem
Chapter Twelve
Morning Mayhem
Dean
I wake up to the sound of industrial drilling.
At six. Effing. A.M.
“What the—”
I shoot out of bed, nearly tripping over Muffin, who has somehow migrated from her dog bed to directly under my feet. She grunts at me as if this is my fault.
The drilling gets louder.
I yank on yesterday’s jeans and storm downstairs, ready to commit whatever level of murder is legally defensible when someone attacks your morning with power tools.
I throw open the front door and—
What the hell?
My lawn looks like a war zone.
There are trucks everywhere. Three? Four? I stop counting when I see two men attempting to erect what appears to be a circus tent where my yard used to be.
“No,” I say to no one. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh good, you’re up!”
I turn to find Poppy—because of course it’s Poppy—powerwalking across the lawn with a clipboard in one hand and what might be the world’s largest coffee in the other. She’s wearing jean shorts that should be illegal and a tank top that says “brIDE’S BESTIE” in glitter.
“What,” I gesture at the chaos, “the hell is this?”
She doesn’t even slow down. “Tent installation. They were supposed to start at eight, but I got them here early. You’re welcome.”
“Are you insane? I’m welcome? For what?”
“For getting a jump on the day.” She consults her clipboard. “We’ve got the tent up at seven, the lighting crew at nine, and—oh, the porta-potties arrive at noon.”
I release a choked sound.
She finally looks at me. Really looks at me. And her step falters just slightly.
Right. No shirt. I forgot about the no-shirt thing.
Her eyes do a quick sweep—chest, abs, that V-thing I’ve been told is distracting—before snapping back to my face. There’s a tiny flush creeping up her neck.
Good.
“Luxury porta-potties,” she says, her voice only slightly higher. “Remember? Climate controlled. Very classy.”
“Nothing about porta-potties is classy.”
“These have chandeliers.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
A guy in a hard hat approaches. “Where do you want the second tent?”
“Second tent?” I practically growl.
Poppy doesn’t miss a beat. “Northwest corner, by the oak trees.” She turns back to me. “Reception tent and ceremony tent. Standard backup in case of rain.”
“Standard would be asking permission before turning my property into effing Coachella.”
She tilts her head. “Did you want me to wake you at 4 a.m. to ask? Because I can do that tomorrow if you prefer.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Because what am I supposed to say? That I specifically told Mason he could use the property? That I agreed to this whole circus? That technically, she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to do?
“Coffee?” she offers, holding out her cup.
“I don’t share germs with chaos agents.”
“Your loss.” She takes a deliberate sip, and I definitely don’t watch her lips wrap around the lid. “It’s got cinnamon.”
Another contractor approaches. This one’s carrying what appears to be a small chandelier.
“For the luxury toilet?” I guess.
“See? You’re learning.”
I run a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up worse. “This is insane.”
“This is a wedding.”
“Same thing.”
She studies me for a moment. “You really hate this, don’t you?”
“What gave it away? The clenched jaw or the eye twitch?”
“Both, actually.” She softens slightly. “Look, I promise we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. You’ll barely know we’re here.”
A tent pole crashes to the ground with a sound like thunder.
We both look at it.
“Starting when?” I ask.
She bites her lip to keep from laughing, and I absolutely don’t notice how that makes her mouth look.
“I’ll buy you breakfast,” she offers. “As an apology for the wake-up call.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
She looks positively offended. “Everyone eats breakfast.”
“I drink coffee and judge people. That’s my breakfast.”
“Well, I make excellent coffee and I’m extremely judgable, so…” She gestures at herself like she’s presenting evidence.
Another crash—this time, it’s a whole section of tent.
“Son of a—” One of the contractors starts swearing creatively.
Poppy winces. “I should probably—”
“The oak tree has a weak branch,” I say. “On the north side. If they set up under it, it’ll come down in the first strong wind.”
She blinks at me. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for being helpful.”
“I’m not being helpful. I’m preventing a lawsuit.”
“Right. Very practical.” But she’s smiling now—the real kind, not the professional one. “Gary! Not under the oak! Move it six feet south!”
Gary gives her a thumbs-up.
She turns back to me. “Any other lawsuit-preventing advice?”
“The sprinklers go off at six-thirty.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Every day.”
She’s already speed-walking toward the contractors. “Everyone move your equipment! Sprinklers in twenty!”
I should go inside. I should remove myself from this situation. I should definitely put on a shirt.
Instead, I follow her.
“Why are you like this?” I ask.
“Like what?” She’s directing traffic now, pointing contractors away from the sprinkler zones with the efficiency of an air traffic controller.
“Aggressively cheerful. It’s unsettling.”
“Why are you aggressively grumpy? That’s equally unsettling.”
“I’m not grumpy. I’m realistic.”
“You want to murder happiness itself.”
“Happiness woke me up with a power drill.”
She laughs—full-on laughs. “God, you’re such a drama queen.”
“I’m a drama queen? You rented chandeliers for toilets.”
“Luxury toilets.”
“That’s not better!”
We’re standing too close now. I don’t know how it happened. One second we were walking, and the next we’re toe-to-toe on my lawn, her looking up at me with those stupidly blue eyes, me looking down at her glitter shirt and trying not to think about what’s underneath it.
“Dean?” she says.
“What?”
“The sprinklers.”
And that’s when the water hits.
It’s like being attacked by a thousand tiny ice bullets. The sprinklers don’t just turn on—they explode, sending jets of freezing water in every direction.
“Shit!” I try to shield her, but it’s too late. We’re both soaked in seconds.
She shrieks, then laughs, then shrieks again. “It’s so cold!”
“I told you seven-thirty!”
“It’s seven-twenty-one!”
Leave it to her to be precise.
We run for cover, her grabbing my arm to steady herself, me trying not to notice how her tank top is now basically see-through.
We make it to the porch, dripping and breathless.
She’s still laughing. Hair plastered to her neck, mascara starting to run, her glitter shirt now a contender for a wet T-shirt contest.
“Your sprinklers are broken,” she accuses.
“Your timing is terrible,” I counter.
“Your lawn is a death trap.”
“Your whole existence is a death trap.”
She steps closer, still breathing hard. “Big words for a man in wet jeans.”
“Big talk for a woman in see-through clothing.”
Her eyes widen. She looks down. “Oh!”
“Here.” I gesture vaguely at the door. “There are towels inside.”
“I can’t go in your house like this!”
“You also can’t stand on my porch like that unless you want to give the contractors a show.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, which only makes things worse—or better, depending on your perspective.
“This is your fault,” she mutters.
“My fault? My sprinklers are on a timer. A consistent, predictable timer.”
“You could have warned me sooner!”
“I did warn you!”
“Six seconds is not a warning!”
We’re arguing about sprinklers, but there’s something else happening. Something in the way she looks at me, water droplets catching on her eyelashes. Something in the way I can’t stop noticing the goosebumps on her arms.
“Towels,” I say roughly. “Inside. Now.”
She nods, suddenly no longer arguing.
I hold the door open, and she ducks inside, careful not to brush against me.
Except she does—just barely. Wet skin against wet skin, and damn if that doesn’t send heat straight through me despite the cold water.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“Your parents are in your living room.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Your. Parents. Are. In. Your. Living. Room.”
I push past her to see, and—yeah, there they are. My mother in her standard Connecticut casual, my father in golf clothes, both staring at us like we’re a particularly interesting exhibit at the zoo.
Oh, and they’ve brought the dogs.
“Dean, sweetheart,” my mother says, her voice dripping with false surprise. “We thought we’d drop by to discuss the wedding arrangements.”
“At seven-thirty in the morning?”
“We were in the neighborhood.”
“You live an hour away.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” She turns her attention to Poppy, and her smile sharpens. “And you must be the wedding planner.”
Poppy, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch. She stands there, dripping on my hardwood floors like this is totally normal.
“Poppy Monroe,” she says, extending a wet hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
My mother looks at the hand like it might be contagious. “Indeed.”
That’s when the dogs make their move.
My parents have two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels—Bingley and Darcy—who are usually about as energetic as throw pillows.
Not today.
They launch themselves at Poppy like she’s made of bacon, circling her legs and jumping, whining with joy.
“Oh!” She laughs, crouching down to pet them. “Hello, babies!”
Bingley—who has never liked anyone, including the people who feed him—immediately rolls over for belly rubs.
Darcy starts licking her face.
“Well,” my father says. “That’s new.”
My mother’s expression could cut glass. “They’re not usually so… enthusiastic.”
“Dogs know good people,” Poppy says, still petting them.
“Do they?” My mother’s tone suggests she disagrees.
I grab towels from the hall closet and toss one to Poppy. “What are you really doing here?”
“We wanted to ensure everything is running smoothly.” My mother eyes Poppy, who’s now trying to towel off while two dogs compete for her attention. “Though it seems there have been some… complications.”
“Sprinkler mishap,” Poppy says cheerfully. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
“Mm.” My mother turns to me. “Dean, darling, might we speak privately?”
“No.”
The word comes out harsher than I intended.
Everyone looks at me.
“No,” I repeat, softer but not by much. “Whatever you need to say about the wedding, you can say in front of Poppy. She’s the planner.”
My mother’s lips thin. “Very well. We have concerns about the… scale of this event. The trucks outside, the tents. It seems excessive.”
“It’s a wedding,” I say. “Not a barbecue.”
Bingley whines, sensing the tension. He presses closer to Poppy, who absently strokes his head.
“I think,” Poppy says carefully, “what Dean means is that Mason and Ivy have a very specific vision for their day. And as their planner, it’s my job to execute that vision.”
My mother turns her laser focus on her. “And what are your qualifications, exactly?”
“Mom—”
“It’s fine,” Poppy interrupts. “I’ve been planning weddings for three years. I’ve handled events for ten to five hundred guests. I’ve worked with budgets from five thousand to half a million. And I’ve never had a dissatisfied client.”
“How impressive,” my mother says in a tone that suggests the opposite.
“We should go,” my father intervenes. “Let you… dry off.”
They move toward the door, but my mother pauses. “Dean, darling, do think about what we’ve said. And perhaps suggest to Mason that a smaller gathering—”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
She sighs again, collects the dogs (who have to be physically dragged away from Poppy), and sweeps out.
The door closes.
Silence.
“So,” Poppy says. “That was fun.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s either that or punch a wall.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what? The sprinklers? The surprise parent visit? The weird dog thing?”
“All of it.”
She studies me, really looks at me for the first time since we came inside. I realize we’re both still soaking wet, standing in my foyer, probably ruining the floors.
“Your parents seem… intense.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“What’s another?”
“Toxic. Controlling. Emotionally manipulative.”
“Ah.” She wraps the towel tighter around herself. “And they don’t approve of Mason?”
“They don’t like that Mason chose happiness over their version of success.”
“And you?”
I shrug. “I chose their version. Look how well that turned out.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “The dogs liked me.”
“The dogs have good taste.” It slips out before I can stop it. We both freeze.
“I should…” She gestures vaguely at her wet clothes.
“Right. Yes. You should.”
But neither of us moves.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not letting them kick me out.”
“I wasn’t going to let them—”
“You stood up for me. To your parents. That was…” She bites her lip. “No one’s done that before.”
The admission hangs between us. Too honest. Too real for whatever this is supposed to be.
“Poppy—”
“I should really go change now.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
She backs toward the door, still clutching the towel. “I’ll, um, make sure the contractors stay clear of the sprinklers.”
“Good plan.”
“And I’ll keep the noise down.” Her voice is softer now.
“Appreciated.”
“And Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe put on a shirt? It’s very… distracting. For the, um, contractors.”
I stand there, dripping on my own floor, processing everything. My parents. The dogs. Poppy in a see-through shirt defending her qualifications while shaking inside.
She slips out before I can respond, leaving me standing in my foyer, soaked and somehow more confused than when I woke up.
The way she looked at me when I told my mother to stand down.
“Damn it,” I mutter to the empty room.
Because I think I might be in trouble here. The kind of trouble that doesn’t wash off with cold water.
Muffin chooses that moment to waddle in from wherever she’s been hiding.
“Thanks for the backup,” I tell her.
She snorts and heads for her food bowl.
My phone buzzes. Three texts from Mason.
MASON: Mom just called.
MASON: WTF did you say to them???
MASON: Also, why did Mom mention you were half-naked with my wedding planner?
I stare at the texts.
Then I pour myself some coffee.
It’s going to be a very long couple of days.