Chapter Nineteen George Returns
Chapter Nineteen
George Returns
Poppy
The bleat hits me like a personal attack.
I know that bleat.
“No.” I spin around, coffee mug halfway to my mouth. Hot liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “No no no no—”
George stands in the middle of the lawn, chewing what looks suspiciously like my backup veil. The one I spent forty dollars on. The one that was supposed to save the day if Ivy’s grandmother’s veil spontaneously combusted.
“How are you HERE?” My voice pitches up, strangled somewhere between disbelief and rage.
He tilts his head. Keeps chewing. Zero fucks given.
“You were picked up. I watched them take you. There was a truck and everything!” I’m gesturing wildly now, coffee forgotten, my free hand slicing through the morning air like I’m prosecuting a case against a goat.
CeCe pokes her head out of the guest house, sleep-mussed and squinting. “Why are you yelling at—oh shit. Is that George?”
“It can’t be George. George is GONE.” But even as I say it, my stomach sinks. That’s definitely George’s signature head tilt. That’s definitely George’s chaos energy.
George bleats again. Definitely George.
“Maybe it’s a different goat?” CeCe offers weakly, pulling her cardigan tighter.
I stare at her. Just stare. Let the full weight of my are-you-kidding-me face do the work.
“A different goat,” I say slowly, carefully, like I’m explaining physics to a toddler. “Who just happens to look exactly like George and showed up on Dean’s property the day before the wedding?”
“Stranger things have—”
George headbutts the folding table. The impact reverberates across the lawn. Three centerpieces topple in slow motion. One vase shatters, crystal exploding across the grass like tiny diamonds of my failure.
“GEORGE!”
I sprint across the lawn because dignity is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. George sees me coming and does that sideways hop thing that means he’s about to be a complete dick.
“Don’t you dare—”
He dares.
Takes off toward the ceremony arch with my veil still hanging from his mouth like some demented bridal flag. I’m chasing a goat. This is my life now.
“Need help?”
Dean’s voice stops me mid-sprint. I skid to a halt, chest heaving, one sandal half-off. He’s standing on the porch with his morning coffee, looking like a J.Crew ad while I’m out here living my worst life. His hair’s still damp from a shower. He smells like cedar and judgment.
“Does it LOOK like I need help?” I snap, shoving my sandal back on.
He takes a slow, deliberate sip of coffee. Considers the question with infuriating thoughtfulness. “Little bit.”
My eye twitches. “Your property is cursed.”
“My property was fine until you showed up.” But his mouth’s doing that thing. That almost-smile thing that makes me want to throw something at his stupidly handsome face.
George chooses this moment to leap onto the gift table with the grace of a drunk parkour enthusiast.
“GEORGE NO—”
Too late. The table collapses. Wood splinters. Wrapped presents scatter like party confetti.
“That’s coming out of your deposit,” Dean says, entirely too calm for someone watching his property get destroyed.
“What deposit?” I whirl on him.
“The one I’m retroactively charging you.” He raises his mug slightly, satisfied smirk playing at his lips.
I flip him off. He raises his mug in a mock toast, and I hate that it makes me want to laugh.
Twenty minutes later, George is tied to a tree with what might be excessive amounts of rope, and I’m surveying the damage. One broken vase. Three traumatized centerpieces. My dignity in pieces.
“Could be worse,” CeCe says.
“How?”
“Could be raining.”
I look up at the sky. “Don’t you dare jinx—”
“Poppy!” Ivy’s voice carries across the lawn. She’s power-walking toward us in designer athleisure, Mason trailing behind. “Ready for the tasting?”
The tasting.
The menu tasting. I’d forgotten that was today.
“Um. Yes! Absolutely! Just… dealing with a small goat situation.”
She stops. Notices George. “Is that—”
“Different goat,” I lie. “This one’s… Steve.”
“Steve?”
“Steve the goat. He’s… for ambiance.”
Mason squints. “Looks exactly like George.”
“All goats look alike,” I say, which is probably racist against goats but whatever.
“Actually,” Dean appears beside me, because of course he does, “statistically, goats have distinct facial features that—”
I elbow him. Hard.
“—that I’m sure vary greatly between George and… Steve.”
“See?” I beam at Ivy. “Totally different goat.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but the caterer’s van pulls up before she can interrogate me further.
“Oh good!” She claps. “Dean, you’re doing the tasting with us, right?”
He freezes. “What?”
“The menu tasting. I texted you yesterday.”
“I don’t recall—”
“I definitely texted you.” She’s already heading toward the van. “Mason has a client call, so you’re stepping in. Poppy will fill you in on the dietary restrictions.”
And just like that, I’m being voluntold to spend the next hour eating tiny foods with Dean Whitaker.
Kill me.
“Dietary restrictions?” he mutters as Ivy bounces away.
“Sixteen of them.”
“Sixteen?”
“Welcome to modern weddings.” I hand him my color-coded spreadsheet. “Gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, joy-free—”
“That last one’s not real.”
“Might as well be.”
Dean pauses, looks down at me and lifts one eyebrow.
“I’ll just… go and compose myself and meet you back here in thirty.”
He nods once, mouth twitching.
Thirty-six minutes later, I’ve managed to touch up my makeup and what almost constitutes a matching outfit. Cream linen pants and a basic black T-shirt. There are sandals on my feet and three bracelets on my wrist and I am ready.
Day before the wedding. I can do this. Even if George is back. Even if the sexual tension with Dean might kill me.
The caterer—a woman named Deb who looks like she could bench press me—starts setting up samples on the porch table. Tiny portions of everything. Aesthetic as hell. Probably costs more than my rent.
“Okay!” Deb claps. “We’ll start with the—”
Thunder rumbles.
We all look up.
“Thought you said it wasn’t gonna rain,” I mutter to CeCe.
“I said it COULD be worse if it rained. That’s different.”
Another rumble. Closer.
“Inside?” Deb suggests.
“Inside,” everyone agrees.
We relocate to Dean’s dining room, which is weird because now I’m sitting next to him at his actual table, and somehow that feels even more cozy and intimate. I don’t have time to be thinking about the words intimate and Dean in the same sentence.
Cool. This isn’t awkward at all.
“First course,” Deb announces, setting down plates with the reverence of someone presenting fine art. “Beet carpaccio with microgreens and—”
“Pass,” Dean says immediately, not even looking at it.
“You haven’t even tried it.” I’m already irritated and we’re thirty seconds in.
“Don’t need to. Beets taste like dirt.” He sits back, arms crossed like that settles it.
“They taste like earth,” Ivy corrects, ever the peacemaker.
Dean gives her a look. “That’s literally dirt.”
“Just try it.” I shove a fork at him, and our fingers brush. Brief. Electric. I pull back too fast.
He takes the world’s smallest bite, his face going through an entire emotional journey in three seconds. Confusion. Disgust. Vindication.
“Told you. Dirt.”
“You’re such a child.” But I’m fighting a smile.
“Says the woman who brought a goat to my property. Twice.” He leans back in his chair, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Steve is a different goat!” My voice goes up an octave.
“Steve is George in witness protection.” He takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his glass.
Deb clears her throat loudly. “Should I mark the beets as a no?”
“YES,” Dean and I say in unison, then immediately glare at each other for agreeing.
The tasting continues. Dean rejects half the menu on principle. I defend foods I don’t even like just to argue with him. Ivy watches us like we’re dinner theater, chin propped on her hand, utterly delighted.
“The salmon—”
“Too pink.” He pushes the plate away.
“That’s what salmon looks like!” I’m gesturing again, fork in hand like a tiny sword.
“Suspiciously pink.” He narrows his eyes at the fish like it personally offended him.
“It’s SALMON COLORED.”
“Which is suspicious.”
I throw a microgreen at him. He catches it midair with reflexes that are frankly unnecessary, pops it in his mouth.
“Tastes like disappointment,” he deadpans.
“You taste like disappointment.” It’s out before I can stop it.
He blinks. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Your face doesn’t make sense.” I sound like I’m twelve. I don’t care.
Ivy giggles. Actually giggles, hand over her mouth. “You two are cute.”
“We’re not cute,” we say together, then freeze.
“We’re professionally hostile,” I add quickly, cheeks warming.
“Professionally hostile but make it cute,” CeCe chimes in from where she’s been watching this whole disaster unfold.
Thunder crashes. The lights flicker.
“Um,” Deb says. “Should we maybe—”
The wind hits like a freight train. Even from inside, we can hear it. Howling. Angry. Very much not good for tents.
“THE TENT!” I jump up so fast I knock over the tray of beets. Crimson spreads across Dean’s pristine white tablecloth like a crime scene.
We all rush to the window.
The reception tent is… fighting. That’s the only word for it. Fighting the wind and losing. One corner’s already lifted, ropes straining, the whole structure swaying like a drunk giant.
“Oh no. Oh no oh no—”
I’m already running. Out the door, into the storm that came out of nowhere because apparently the universe hates me specifically.
The wind hits like a slap. Rain sideways. Hair immediately plastered to my face.
“POPPY!” Dean’s right behind me. “You can’t—”
“IT’S GONNA COLLAPSE!”
“SO??”
“SO IT’S MY TENT!”
“IT’S A RENTAL!”
“IT’S MY RESPONSIBILITY!”
I grab one of the loose ropes. The wind tries to yank it away. Dean grabs it too, his hands covering mine.
“This is insane!”
“WELCOME TO WEDDING PLANNING!”
We pull. Hard. The tent fights back.