Chapter Fifteen Dress Disaster
Chapter Fifteen
Dress Disaster
Poppy
Not a cute little oh no scream. A full-on, horror-movie, someone’s-been-murdered scream that makes me drop my coffee and sprint toward the main house in yesterday’s sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt without a bra.
I burst through the back door without knocking because, well, someone’s dying.
“What happened? Who’s hurt? Do we need—”
I stop.
Ivy’s standing in the middle of the kitchen in her wedding dress. Or what used to be her wedding dress. Now it’s…
“Is that… red wine?” I ask.
She nods, tears streaming down her face. “I was trying it on, and Mason brought me coffee, but then Muffin ran between my legs, and I tripped, and the coffee hit the wine bottle on the counter, and—”
“Breathe.”
“IT’S RUINED.”
The dress is screwed. Like, properly screwed. Red wine splattered across the entire left side, coffee stains down the front. She looks like a very expensive murder victim.
“The wedding’s in two days,” she whispers. “Two days, and I have no dress, and—”
“Hey.” I grab her shoulders. “Look at me.”
She does. Mascara is everywhere. Full raccoon mode.
“We’re gonna fix this.”
“How? It’s vintage Vera Wang! My grandmother’s veil goes with this specific dress! The alterations took six weeks!”
Mason appears in the doorway, looking like he might vomit. “I’m so sorry, babe, I didn’t see Muffin, and—”
“Not helping,” I tell him.
“Right. Shutting up.”
“Where’s Dean?”
“Office. Working.”
Of course he is.
“Okay.” I turn back to Ivy. “Take off the dress. Carefully.”
“Why? It’s ruined.”
“Because I need to see the label and construction. Go.”
She disappears upstairs. Mason hovers, wringing his hands.
“This is my fault,” he says.
“Unless you trained Muffin to be a wine assassin, no, it’s not.”
“She’s gonna hate me.”
“She’s gonna marry you. But first, I need coffee, my car keys, and about six hundred dollars in cash.”
His eyes widen. “Uh—”
Dean appears in the doorway as if he was summoned. Hair perfect, shirt pressed, expression somewhere between annoyed and concerned.
“Why is everyone yelling?”
“Dress emergency,” I say.
“Define emergency.”
I gesture at the wine puddle, the coffee splatter, and Mason’s guilty face.
“Ah.” He takes in my appearance—sleep shorts, no bra, hair in yesterday’s bun. His jaw tightens. “What do you need?”
“Prayers. Cash. Maybe a small miracle.”
He pulls out his wallet and hands me a credit card. “Pin’s 0827.”
I stare at it. “You’re just… giving me your credit card?”
“You’re fixing this?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then yes.”
Our fingers brush during the exchange. Neither of us acknowledges it.
“Try not to make it worse.”
“Your faith in me is touching.”
An almost-smile. “Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“Put on real clothes first.”
I look down. Right. Basically naked in his kitchen. Cool.
“Give me five minutes.”
***
Two hours later, I’m standing in a vintage shop with the owner, a dress that might work, and a seamstress who thinks I’m insane.
“You want me to what?” She’s sixty, German, and takes no shit.
“Recreate the bodice structure of the ruined dress on this one. Today.”
“Impossible.”
“I’ll pay triple.”
She pauses. “Show me the pictures again.”
I pull up the photos I took of Ivy’s destroyed dress. The seamstress—Greta—studies them like battle plans.
“The beading will be different,” she warns.
“She won’t care if you make it work.”
“I’ll need four hours minimum.”
“You’ll have three.”
She snorts. “You remind me of me. Annoying.”
“I get that a lot.”
My phone buzzes.
DEAN: Status?
ME: Found a dress. Might work. Seamstress currently calling me names in German.
DEAN: Promising.
ME: How’s Ivy?
DEAN: Drinking wine at 11 a.m.
ME: Ironic choice.
DEAN: Mason’s stress-baking.
ME: What are you doing?
DEAN: Googling wedding dress stores in case you need backup.
ME: Your confidence is overwhelming.
DEAN: Realism.
ME: I’m not failing.
DEAN: I know.
That stops me. Two words. But the way he just… believes I’ll fix this. Like it’s a fact.
ME: Three hours. I’ll be back.
DEAN: Copy.
Greta clears her throat. “Your boyfriend’s texting can wait.”
“He’s not my—”
“Sure.” She’s already working, pins in her mouth. “Not boyfriend with the credit card and worried texts.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Always is with the good ones.”
***
Three hours and fourteen minutes later, I’m back at the estate with a garment bag and barely contained panic.
The kitchen’s been transformed into what looks like a grief bakery. Cookies everywhere. Muffins. Is that a freaking pie?
“Stress baking?” I ask Mason.
“I made brownies,” he says helplessly. “And scones. And… I think that’s banana bread?”
“Wow.”
Dean’s at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes. Because of course he’s the one handling the chaos cleanup.
“Where’s Ivy?” I ask.
“Living room. Slightly drunk.”
“Perfect. Don’t let her come up for twenty minutes.”
I head for the stairs, garment bag over my shoulder.
“Poppy.”
I turn. Dean’s watching me, dish towel in hand.
“Thank you,” he says. Simple. Sincere.
“Thank her when it fits.”
Upstairs, I spread the dress on the bed and hold my breath.
It’s not the same. It can’t be. But it’s close. Ivory silk, similar silhouette, and Greta worked actual magic with the beading. Different pattern but same vibe. Romantic. Classic. Very Ivy.
I text Dean.
ME: Send her up. Alone.
ME: And maybe have tissues ready.
A minute later, Ivy appears in the doorway. Mascara fixed, buzz fading, hope warring with dread on her face.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her.
“Poppy—”
“Trust me.”
She does.
I help her into the dress, zip it carefully, adjust the shoulders.
“Okay. Look.”
She opens her eyes. Stares at the mirror.
Silence.
“I know it’s not the same,” I start. “But Greta matched the bodice structure, and the beading is actually—”
“It’s perfect.”
I blink. “It is?”
She turns, examining every angle. “It’s… God, it’s better than the original.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Was drunk. Now I’m… How did you do this?”
“Vintage shop in Hudson. German seamstress who called me an asshole in three languages. Dean’s credit card.”
“Dean paid for this?”
Something warm unfolds inside me. “Yeah.”
She stares at herself again, then at me. “Why?”
“Because it’s your wedding. And the dress doesn’t matter nearly as much as the marriage, but it also totally matters, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.”
She hugs me. Hard. Like, might-crack-a-rib hard. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Okay, crying is bad for the alterations—”
“I don’t care.” She pulls back, mascara running again. “You saved my wedding.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“No. It’s not.” She wipes her face she practically floats to the bathroom. “I have to show Mason. And Dean. And—Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re officially family now. No takebacks.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. “Thanks, Ivy.”
I head downstairs, exhausted but victorious. Dean’s still at the sink. The kitchen’s spotless. Mason’s nowhere to be seen.
“Banished him to the porch,” Dean says without turning. “He was about to start on croissants.”
“Smart.”
“Is she happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“Good.” He turns, and there’s something soft in his expression. “You did good.”
“Just doing my job.”
“No.” He steps closer. “Your job was planning the wedding. This was… more.”
We’re standing too close. Again. Always ending up in each other’s space like magnets with no sense of self-preservation.
“Dean—”
“The seamstress,” he says. “How much?”
“Check your credit card statement.”
He winces. “That bad?”
“Worth it though.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“Did you see Mason’s face? He thought she’d hate him forever.”
“She could never hate him.” He’s looking at me weird. Intense. “That’s not how it works when you love someone.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Observation.”
“Right.” I need to move. Need space. Need to not think about how he smells like dish soap and expensive cologne. “I should—”
“Poppy.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.”
I freeze. “At what?”
“Taking care of people.” He reaches out, tucks a stray hair behind my ear. His fingers linger. “Making things okay when they’re falling apart.”
“I—”
“POPPY!” Ivy’s voice from upstairs. “THE ZIPPER’S STUCK!”
The moment breaks. Dean steps back. I run upstairs like the house is on fire.
But I can still feel where his fingers touched.
Still hear him saying you’re really good at this like it meant something.
Like I meant something.