The country club smells like old money and regret. Perfect.
I’m doing this thing where I hover near the mimosa station like it’s home base in a really bad game of tag. Dean’s across the room talking to his mother, and I’m pretending the orange juice needs my complete attention.
“You’re being weird,” CeCe mutters beside me.
“I’m being strategic.”
“You’re hiding behind fruit juice.”
“Strategically hiding.”
She grabs a mimosa. Downs half of it. “Just go talk to him.”
“Pass.”
“Poppy—”
“Look, there’s Ivy!”
I abandon CeCe and her judgy eyes, and make a beeline for the bride. Safe territory.
Ivy’s glowing in that post-wedding way, all soft edges and stupid happiness. Mason’s got his arm around her, and they’re doing that thing where they can’t stop touching. Little brushes. Fingers intertwined. Casual PDA that makes my chest hurt.
“Poppy!” Ivy extracts herself to hug me. “Tell me you’re not leaving yet.”
“Flight’s at two.”
“Italy!” She bounces a little. “I’m so jealous. Please eat everything.”
“That’s the plan.”
Mason joins the hug, because apparently we’re those people now. “Seriously, Poppy. Can’t thank you enough.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “You went above and beyond. The guitar thing alone—”
My stomach twists. “That was all Dean.”
They exchange one of those married people looks. Great. They know. Everyone knows. The whole world knows I spent last night on Dean Whitaker’s couch like some pathetic—
“Poppy?”
His voice hits me like a physical thing. Low. Careful. Too close.
I turn. Try for casual. “Hey.”
He looks tired. Good tired, but still. Hair’s doing that thing where it’s trying to be messy but can’t quite commit. He’s in jeans and a button-down that’s probably worth more than my car payment.
“Hi,” he says.
Hi. That’s it. That’s all we get?
Ivy clears her throat. “We’re gonna go… check on the buffet.”
“The buffet’s fine—” Mason starts.
She drags him away. Subtle as a brick.
