Not Ivy.
Poppy.
Standing at the back, clipboard forgotten, watching me play. Tears swimming in her eyes.
Damn.
I almost miss a chord. Mason covers, keeps the bassline steady.
Ivy appears, radiant and perfect, but I can’t stop looking at Poppy. The way she’s pressing her hand to her chest. The way she’s looking at me like…
Like maybe I’m not the only one who’s screwed here.
Mason sets down his bass and takes his spot at the front.
The ceremony passes in a blur. Vows, rings, the unity thing where I play the song that makes everyone cry. Mason kisses his bride. Everyone cheers.
And Poppy’s gone.
Disappeared somewhere between “I do” and “I now pronounce you.”
“That was beautiful,” someone says.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Pack up the guitar. Shake hands. Accept compliments I don’t deserve.
But all I can think about is the look on her face.
And how I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out what the hell to do about it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perfect Chaos
Poppy
The sun’s doing that golden hour thing where everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey and Instagram filters. I’m standing at the edge of the reception tent, clipboard abandoned somewhere between the cake cutting and my second glass of champagne, watching my perfectly planned wedding become something else entirely.
Something better.
Mason’s got Ivy on the dance floor, spinning her like they’re in their own music video. Her dress flares out. He dips her. She laughs so hard she snorts. Three of her influencer friends are filming, but she doesn’t even notice.
That’s love, I think. When you forget about the cameras. When you forget about everything except the man in front of you.
“Miss?” A server appears with another champagne flute. “From the gentleman at table twelve.”
I don’t need to look. Table twelve is where Dean’s been holding court with his grandmother, who’s had four martinis and is now telling anyone who’ll listen about Dean’s “awkward phase.”
But I look anyway.
He’s loosened his tie. Ditched his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, because apparently he’s trying to kill me. His hair isslightly tousled now. And he’s watching me with this expression that makes my stomach do stupid things. Idiotic things.
I raise the glass in a mock toast. He smirks.
God help me.
“Poppy!” Gloria materializes in a cloud of patchouli and silk. “The flowers are still perfect!”
