Chapter Sixteen Midnight Confessions
Chapter Sixteen
Midnight Confessions
Dean
Not because of work. Not because of the wedding chaos. But because there’s a light bouncing around my backyard like a drunk firefly.
I watch from my bedroom window. Someone’s out there with a headlamp, dragging string lights across my pergola. In the dark. Alone.
Three guesses who.
I pull on jeans and head outside barefoot, because apparently I make excellent decisions after midnight.
She’s balanced on a ladder that’s seen better days, headlamp crooked, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “damn you, physics.”
“You know it’s midnight, right?”
She jerks. The ladder wobbles. I’m there before I think about it, hands on the sides, steadying.
“Geez.” She looks down at me, one hand pressed to her chest. “Wear a bell or something.”
“On my own property?”
“When you’re sneaking up on people? Yes.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. You were distracted by your war with gravity.”
She adjusts the headlamp, which just makes her look like a deranged miner. “These lights won’t hang themselves.”
“They could. Tomorrow. When humans typically work.”
“Tomorrow’s packed. Florist at seven, caterer at eight, final sound check at—”
“So you’re doing it now. At midnight. On a broken ladder.”
“It’s not broken. It’s… vintage.”
The ladder creaks ominously.
“Get down.”
“No.”
“Poppy.”
“Dean.”
“You’re gonna fall and break your neck. Then I’ll have to find a new wedding planner right before—”
“Your concern is touching.”
“Get. Down.”
She sighs but climbs down. The ladder immediately lists to one side.
“See? Vintage.”
“Death trap.” I grab the string of lights from her hands. “What are you even trying to do?”
“Soft perimeter lighting for the cocktail hour. Ivy wants magical garden party not suburban barbecue.”
“At midnight?”
She shrugs. The movement makes her headlamp slide sideways. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I should go back inside. Should let her deal with her insomnia and questionable ladder choices alone.
Instead, I say, “Hold this.”
I pass her one end of the lights and grab the other. We work in silence, stringing them through the pergola beams. Her on one side, me on the other. Meeting in the middle.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I ask.
“Brain won’t shut off. You?”
“Same.”
“What’s keeping the great Dean Whitaker awake? Billable hours? Existential dread?”
“Poppy Monroe doing construction in my backyard.”
She glances down from the ladder, her headlamp flickering like a dying star. “I’m hardly doing construction—shit.” The clip slips from her fingers. “These clips are evil.”
“Here.” I reach up, fixing the strand before she can try again. Our fingers brush—a small thing, but my pulse kicks anyway. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold.”
It’s August.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I ask.
“Um. Lunch?”
“Which lunch?”
She winces. “The… yesterday kind?”
“Damn it, Poppy.”
“I’ve been busy—”
“You’ve been stubborn.” I finish the last clip and step back. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen. Food. Now.”
“I don’t need—”
I’m already walking away. After a beat, her footsteps follow.
“Bossy,” she mutters.
Practical, not bossy. Someone has to make sure the wedding planner doesn’t collapse in the middle of my property. It’s a liability waiting to happen.
The kitchen is dim, the under-cabinet lights throwing soft shadows across the counters. I pull out leftovers. She perches on a barstool, headlamp still crooked, exhaustion written all over her face.
“You can take that off now.”
“Oh. Right.” She removes it, and her hair comes with it, falling around her shoulders in loose waves.
“Better?” she asks.
Worse, actually. Much worse.
I slide a plate across the counter. “Eat.”
She eyes it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Food. Eat it.”
She takes one bite and groans softly. “Oh wow.”
“It’s just pasta.”
“It’s heaven,” she says around another bite. “When did you make this?”
“Earlier. While you were running around playing fairy godmother.”
“I wasn’t—” She stops, smiles sheepishly. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Silence settles—comfortable but full of static. She eats; I lean against the sink, watching her demolish the pasta like she’s been starving for days. The sight stirs something protective in me I don’t want to name.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
She blinks up. “Do what?”
“Take care of everyone but yourself.”
Her fork stills halfway to her mouth. “I take care of myself.”
“When?”
She laughs once, short and breathy. “It’s been a busy week.”
“Why do I have a feeling it’s always a busy week with you?”
Her fork lowers to the plate. There’s a shift—the kind that changes the air. “Maybe because if I stop moving, I’ll have to think about—” She stops. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Poppy.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’re stringing lights at midnight and forgetting to eat.”
“So? You’re feeding a stranger at midnight instead of sleeping.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
The words come out too fast. Too true.
She looks at me for a long second, then says quietly, “No. I guess I’m not.”
She pushes pasta around her plate, appetite fading. “This wedding… it’s important.”
“All weddings are important to you.” I mean it as an observation, not an accusation.
“This one’s different,” she says.
“Why?”
She meets my gaze. There’s something raw there—fear, maybe, or exhaustion. “Because if I mess this up…”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” My voice drops. “You’d die before letting Ivy down.”
Her mouth twitches. “That’s kind of the problem.”
I move closer, leaning on the counter across from her. Close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla shampoo and stress. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I’m just… stressed. Normal wedding planner stuff.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughs—quick, brittle. “Can’t get anything past you.”
“Poppy.”
She exhales, pacing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m in over my head? That I’m one bad vendor call away from a complete breakdown? That I haven’t slept in three days because every time I close my eyes, I see all the ways this could go wrong?”
“Start with the truth.”
“The truth?” She stops, hands on her hips. “The truth is I’m freaking terrified, okay? This wedding has to be perfect. It has to be. And I’m—”
She stops. Shakes her head.
“You’re what?”
“Tired.” She looks away. “I’m tired.”
When she moves past me, I catch her arm—just enough to stop her. The warmth of her skin hits me first, then the tremor beneath it.
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“Let it go, Dean.”
“No.”
Her voice lowers. “Why do you care?”
Because you make the house feel less empty. Because I see too much of myself in your exhaustion. Because I don’t know how to stop.
“Because you’re about to burn out on my property,” I say instead, “and I don’t want the liability.”
That earns me a real laugh—soft, genuine. “There he is. Mr. Practical.”
“Someone has to be.”
We’re standing too close now. Her arm’s still in my hand, her pulse quick beneath my fingers.
“There’s a leaf,” I say, because my brain short-circuits.
“What?”
“In your hair. From the pergola.”
“Oh.”
I reach up, pluck it free. I should step back. I don’t. The space between us feels thinner than air.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“You’re still holding the leaf.”
I look down. She’s right—a dead leaf between my fingers, my hand inches from her face.
“You have pasta sauce,” I say. “On your… just—”
I brush my thumb across the corner of her mouth. Warm skin. Soft breath.
She freezes. So do I.
The kitchen hums—refrigerator, maybe our heartbeats.
“This is complicated,” she whispers.
“Everything with you is complicated.”
“Is that bad?”
I should say yes. Should pull back. Should remember how temporary she is.
Instead, I shake my head. “No.”
Her hand comes up, fingers tracing my collar—featherlight, curious. “You’re always so put together.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Even at midnight?”
“Especially at midnight.”
She tugs lightly at my shirt. “Must be exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
She’s close enough now that her breath grazes my jaw. The world feels quieter, narrower. Just her, me, and a thousand things I shouldn’t want.
“I should go,” she says softly.
“Probably.”
“Early morning.”
“Right.”
Neither of us moves.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens with this wedding… thanks. For catching me. On the ladder. And… in other ways.”
The words land somewhere behind my ribs.
“Just didn’t want a lawsuit,” I mumble, my voice low.
“Liar.” Her fingers linger one beat longer. “You care.”
“Don’t let it get around.”
“Your secret’s safe.” She steps back, small but decisive. “Along with mine.”
“What secret?”
“The one where I’m not as put together as I pretend to be.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone—back across the lawn to the guest house.
Through the window, her light flicks on. Stays on.
She’s keeping something from me. Something that doesn’t fit the version of her everyone else sees.
And I’m going to find out what.
Because Poppy Monroe doesn’t string lights at midnight unless she’s running from something.
And whatever it is, she shouldn’t have to face it alone.