“Enough.” She studies me, silent for a long moment. “You know she’s not wrong.”
“Neither was I.” But it sounds hollow.
“No,” she agrees, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re both disasters. Which is probably why you’re perfect for each other.”
“We’re not—”
“Good grief, stop.” She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I’ve watched you two circle each other all week like horny vultures. Just kiss her already.”
“I did.” The admission slips out.
Her eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. “When?”
“The other day.” After the Reddit incident. Against my kitchen wall.
“And?” She’s leaning forward now, invested.
And it was everything. It terrified me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
“And it’s complicated,” I say, the understatement of the year.
“Yeah, no shit.” She pushes off the doorway. “Look, I don’t know you. But I know Poppy. And she doesn’t get worked up about guys. Ever. But you? You’ve got her twisted in knots even George couldn’t manage.”
“That’s not—” I start, but she talks over me.
“She’s leaving Sunday,” CeCe continues, her voice gentler now. “So whatever this is, whatever you think you’re protecting yourself from, you’ve got about thirty-six hours to figure it out.”
She leaves me with that cheerful thought.
I stay on the patio, nursing my whiskey and my bruised ego. Poppy’s words keep echoing in my mind. You’re terrified. Of wanting something. Of someone mattering.
She’s right. We’re both hiding, just in different ways.
An hour later, the party’s winding down. I’ve done my duty—smiled at relatives, shaken hands, pretended to care about small talk. Mason and Ivy left twenty minutes ago, glowing with pre-wedding happiness that makes my chest hurt in ways I don’t want to examine.
I should go home. I should review tomorrow’s timeline. I should do anything except what I’m about to do.
Instead, I go looking for Poppy.
She’s not in the main dining room. Not at the bar. Not on the patio where I destroyed whatever fragile thing was building between us.
“Lost something?” Gloria appears again, materializing from nowhere. The woman has supernatural timing.
“Have you seen—”
“She left.” Her expression softens slightly, knowing. “Whatever you said to her—”
“Was true.” I set my jaw.
“Truth and cruelty often wear the same clothes,” she says, tilting her head. “Doesn’t mean you have to let them.”
Cryptic flower aunt wisdom. Fantastic. As if my night couldn’t get any worse.
“Where did she go?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Back to the house, I assume.” She tilts her head, studying me like a particularly interesting bug. “Are you going after her?”
“No.” But my feet are already moving toward the door.
