“Helped?” Mason snorts, shaking his head. “Bro, I basically—”
“Mason.” Dean’s voice carries that older brother warning, sharp and final. “Not now.”
“How did you—” I stop. Start over. Try to make words happen through the lump in my throat. “When did you—”
“This morning.” Still not looking at me, eyes fixed on the fretboard. “After you needed help.”
After I needed help.
Like it’s that simple. Like learning guitar music in a couple of hours is just something people do. Like resurrecting buried parts of yourself for someone else’s crisis is normal behavior.
“Poppy.” Now he looks at me. Really looks at me. And there’s so much in his eyes I can’t catalog it all—fear and hope and something that looks dangerously close to the thing I’ve been trying not to name. “Let us do this. Please.”
Us. The Whitaker brothers, who spent most of the week bickering about grass and liability insurance but are now sitting here with instruments because I needed them.
Because I needed help and Dean…Dean chose this.Chose me. Chose to make sure this wedding—my wedding—went perfectly.
I’m going to cry. Right here. In front of three hundred guests and God and everyone. My eyes are already burning, vision blurring. Ugh, my makeup!
“I can’t—” My throat closes up. “This is—”
“If you cry, your mascara will run.” His mouth quirks, that almost-smile that makes me stupid. “And then Ivy will cry. And then everyone will cry. It’ll be a whole thing.”
A laugh bubbles out—watery and ridiculous, half-sob, half-giggle. “You’re an ass.”
“Yeah.” He starts playing again. Something soft and warm that sounds like a lullaby, like coming home. “Now go do your thing. We’ve got the music.”
I should go. Should check on Ivy. Should do literally anything except stand here staring at Dean Whitaker like he just handed me the moon. This softer, sweeter version of Dean that I never knew existed. But I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the grass.
“That song,” I whisper, barely audible over the music. “What is it?”
He glances at Mason, who suddenly finds his bass very interesting, studying the strings like they hold the secrets of the universe.
“Just something I wrote,” Dean says quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “A long time ago.”
He wrote it?
He writes music?
This man, who drives me insane and works drafting prenups, writes music that sounds like heartbreak and hope had a baby. I’m sorry, but what?
“It’s beautiful.” The words feel inadequate, too small for what I’m feeling.
“It’s yours.”
The words land between us like a grenade. The air leaves my lungs.
“What?”
“For the ceremony.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “If you want it. For the... you know. Prelude music. While people are sitting.”
“You’re giving me your song?” My voice pitches up, incredulous.
“It’s just notes, Poppy. No big deal.” But the muscle in his jaw jumps, betraying him.
Except it is. It’s the biggest deal. It’s Dean Whitaker cracking himself open and handing me pieces I didn’t even know existed.
“POPPY!” Ivy’s voice carries from the house, shrill with pre-wedding panic. “WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU!”
