Chapter Forty Big Wife Energy
Chapter Forty
Big Wife Energy
Dean
Mason’s crying.
“Dude,” I say. “Pull it together.”
“I can’t help it.” He dabs his eyes with Ivy’s handkerchief. “You’re getting married. You. Mr. ‘I Don’t Need Anyone.’ Mr. ‘Emotions Are For Weak People.’”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it. Heavily. For years.”
He’s not wrong. This is quite the one-eighty for me.
Nate appears with shots. “Emotional support tequila?”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” I point out.
“It’s your wedding day.” He distributes glasses. “Normal rules don’t apply.”
“I’m not doing shots before—”
“To Dean,” Mason interrupts, raising his glass. “Who finally pulled his head out of his ass.”
“Poetic,” I mutter.
“And to Poppy,” Nate adds, “for being brave enough to take him on.”
“Saint Poppy,” Mason agrees. “Patron saint of lost causes.”
“I hate both of you.”
“No you don’t.” Nate clinks his glass against mine. “You love us. Look at you, having feelings.”
I do the shot and immediately regret it. “That’s paint thinner.”
“That’s celebration juice.” Nate checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. You ready?”
Am I ready?
I think about the woman currently in the bridal suite. The one who crashed into my life with chaos and color and made me want things I’d given up on. Who moved across the country on a promise and a prayer. Who built a wedding empire in the Hudson Valley while simultaneously rebuilding me.
Twelve months of Sunday mornings, bickering over coffee strength. Of her reorganizing my bookshelves based on a whim. Of George’s supervised visits that somehow became unsupervised. Of Muffin sleeping between us because Poppy’s too soft to say no.
Twelve months of being happier than I knew was possible.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” Mason claps my shoulder. “Because I saw George heading for the cake earlier.”
“He what?”
“Kidding.” He grins. “Probably.”
“I need you all to know,” I say calmly, “that if that goat ruins one more thing, I’m moving to a state with loose livestock laws.”
“You’d never leave Poppy,” Mason says.
“I’d take her with me.”
“She’d bring George.”
Damn. He’s right.
“Time to go,” Nate announces. “Positions, gentlemen.”
We file out. The venue’s perfect—a barn on the Hoffman property, because of course Poppy charmed them into hosting after planning their daughter’s wedding. Fairy lights everywhere. Wildflowers that “just happened” to coordinate with her color scheme. Guests murmuring, waiting.
And me, standing at the altar, trying not to fidget.
“Breathe,” Mason mutters.
“I’m breathing.”
“Breathe better.”
The music starts. My heart does something stupid.
First down the aisle: Muffin, wearing a flower crown and looking personally offended by the whole situation. She waddles to her designated spot, flops down with a dramatic sigh and lets out a fart.
Then George, the rings tied to his collar with what I’m assured is an “indestructible” ribbon. He immediately veers left, investigating someone’s purse.
“Get the goat,” I hiss at Nate.
“Not my goat, not my problem.”
Nadine—because somehow she’s involved in this—lures George back with what appears to be a bagel. He follows, rings jingling.
Then CeCe appears, gorgeous in lavender, shooting me a look that says hurt her and I’ll end you. Gloria follows, carrying wildflowers and judgment in equal measure.
The music changes.
Everyone stands.
And there she is.
Poppy Monroe.
Soon to be Poppy Monroe Whitaker.
My whole world.