The north lawn.
The one we mapped out together on Zoom. The one with the best light for photos. The one where the ceremony arch is supposed to go.
The one I just assumed was a done deal.
I glance out the window.
Dean Whitaker is back on his porch, a glass in one hand, reading something with his sleeves still rolled up like a catalog model for emotionally unavailable men.
I look down at the dog, still snoring at my feet.
“You and I are going to have to have a word with your human.”
I march.
No deep breaths. No calming affirmations. No “maybe he has a good reason” inner monologue.
I just march. Possibly because I’ve had the day from hell, possibly because I’m ready to go full-Karen over someone taking Ivy’s dream wedding spot.
Across the lawn, down the gravel path, back to the front porch of the man currently threatening to derail an entire wedding over a patch of grass.
He’s sitting in one of the porch chairs now, a glass of something dark in his hand, and a look on his face that says he’s been waiting for me to snap since the moment I arrived.
Well. Here I am.
“Hi,” I say, too brightly. “Do you have a minute?”
He sets the glass down with infuriating calm. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
“Not unless you consider ceremony sabotage a social call.”
His brow lifts. “Sabotage?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snap, climbing the steps. “The north lawn is the ceremony site. It’s in all the planning documents. Ivy approved it. Mason approved it. I approved it.”
“I didn’t approve it.”
I blink.
“You didn’t object when I mentioned it in the walk-through notes.”
“I don’t recall those notes including the phrase ‘please trample my lawn with folding chairs’.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Did you want to host a wedding without any actual wedding things happening?”
He doesn’t flinch. “There are other parts of the property.”
“Not like that one. The light, the view—”
“—the sprinklers, the slope, the two massive tree roots that’ll trip someone’s grandmother.”
I stare at him.
He just stares back, calm and unreadable, like we’re in court and he’s waiting for me to present a better argument.
I take a breath, composing myself.
“This is really important to Ivy,” I say, softening. “It’s her dream spot. And it works. It works for the photos, for the acoustics, for the entire flow of the ceremony, from the parking to the—”
