“Lady, it’s Saturday.” The dismissal in the voice stings.
Call after call. Same answer. Booked. Busy. One guy actually laughs at me, the sound harsh through the speaker.
My hands are shaking now. That scary kind of shaking where you can’t make it stop. The phone keeps slipping in my sweaty palm.
“Poppy—” CeCe’s voice is gentle, worried.
“I’ve got it.” I don’t have it. The lie tastes bitter. “Just… give me a minute.”
I stumble outside because the guest house is too small, the walls pressing in. I need air, need space, need the sky above me. I need a freaking miracle.
And I almost run straight into Dean.
He’s carrying coffee, steam rising from two cups. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He looks unfairly good for someone whose couch I just snuck away from—dress shirt and jeans, barefoot, looking relaxed and put-together while I’m falling apart.
“Whoa.” He steadies me with his free hand, warm and solid against my arm. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I step back, breaking contact. Heat blooms where he touched me. I can’t look at him. Not after last night. Not afterbeing so close to him while I hummed off-key to a dog. Not after whatever that moment was.
“You left early.” His voice is careful, neutral.
My stomach flips. “I had to—wedding stuff.”
“Right.” Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. “Wedding stuff.”
We stand there for a beat too long, the morning air cold between us.
“Dean, I really don’t have time—” I start, already turning away.
“What happened?”
The question stops me. Something in his tone—genuine concern, not just polite inquiry.
“Nothing. Just… a vendor thing.” I wave a hand dismissively, but it’s still shaking.
“What vendor thing?” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his soap—cedar and something else.
“The guitarist canceled.” The words tumble out, too fast, tripping over each other. “For the ceremony. Ivy specifically wanted acoustic guitar, and he’s sick, and I can’t find anyone else, and—”
“Give me an hour.” He’s already setting down the coffee cups on the porch railing.
“What?” I blink at him, not understanding.
“One hour.” He’s backing away, keys appearing in his hand like magic. “Trust me.”
“Dean—” But he’s already moving, purpose in every step.
But he’s gone, jogging toward his car like a man on a mission, leaving me standing there with my mouth open and my crisis temporarily forgotten.
“So,” CeCe says from the doorway, wrapped in a blanket now. “What was that all about?”
I watch Dean’s car disappear down the driveway, taillights winking in the early morning gray. “Shut up.”
“Okay, babe. You’re the boss.” But she’s grinning, that knowing smile that makes me want to throw something at her.
I flip her off and go back to panic-calling musicians, even though something in my chest has loosened just slightly.
An hour later, I’m helping Ivy with pre-wedding prep—her suite is chaos, makeup everywhere, hair tools plugged in, bridesmaid dresses hanging like pastel ghosts—when she starts screaming.
