The way she fits against me like she was always supposed to be here.
Thirteen hours.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Morning After
Poppy
I wake up in the guest house at 6:47 a.m., and my whole body aches like I’ve been hit by a truck named Bad Decisions.
The couch. Right. I slept on Dean’s couch until after midnight, then stumbled back here like some kind of romance novel martyr. Because staying would’ve meant… what? Admitting I wanted more than post-wedding exhaustion cuddles?
My phone buzzes with a flight reminder.
Check-in now available.
Cool. Thanks, phone. Super helpful.
George bleats from the porch, because apparently he’s my roommate now.
“Morning, asshole,” I mutter, dragging myself vertical.
He bleats again. Louder. Like he’s personally offended by my life choices.
“Yeah, well, join the club.”
I stumble to the door, and there he is—my demon goat therapist, already judging me with those creepy rectangle pupils.
“What?” I ask. “You want life advice? From me? The woman who just spent a week falling for someone completely unavailable?”
He headbutts the doorframe.
“Right. That’s what I thought.”
I leave the door open, because why fight it, and start shoving clothes into my suitcase. The safe green dress from the rehearsal dinner. The silk burgundy dress from last night. The heels that witnessed me wrestling a tent in a storm. The backup planner I didn’t need because turns out I’m really good at memorizing disaster scenarios.
George wanders in, settles on the rug like he owns the place.
“You know what’s messed up?” I tell him, folding a shirt badly. “I actually pictured it. The whole thing.”
He tilts his head.
“Not like, wedding bells and babies.” I chuck a shoe in the general direction of my bag. “Just… Tuesday nights, arguing about takeout. Him accepting that sometimes I’m going to prioritize my work over food, sleep, basic human interaction. Me accepting the same about him. Fighting over the thermostat. Stupid, normal couple shit.”
George snorts.
“I know, right? We hardly know each other. That’s not—people don’t—”
I stop. Sit on the bed. Stare at my half-packed disaster.
“But it was kind of intense,” I admit. “Living on his property. The wedding pressure. Everything accelerated, you know? Like relationship boot camp.”
George chews thoughtfully on what looks like my phone charger cord.
“Hey! No!” I yank it away. “I need that for Italy.”
Italy. Right. My big escape plan. A week of pasta and wine and definitely not thinking about Dean Whitaker’s eyes. Or his laugh. Or the way he looked last night dressed in a tux and dancing with one of his little cousins.
