“Roasted turkey with smoked gouda,” I say. “I had a backup.”
“Dean,” she says, her voice mock-serious. “Are you… beingniceto me?”
“I’m legally required to offer aid in a crisis.”
She snorts, unwraps the sandwich, and takes a bite. She moans. “Dear God.”
I nod, acknowledging that yes, Fatty’s sandwiches are the bomb.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch. Not touching. Not talking for a long minute.
Just… eating.
It’s the first quiet moment since she arrived. The first time I’ve felt like maybe this wedding won’t actually kill me.
And then—
CRASH.
Something hits the window.
We both bolt upright.
“Was that…?” she whispers.
“Sounded like a tray.”
I move toward the window and pull back the curtain. George is on my patio table. But this time… he’s not alone.
George stands on the table, and Muffin is there too, at the base, staring up at him like a fuzzy, thunder-vested war general. One paw raised. Silent. Unmoving.
George munches on a stick.
Muffin growls—a low, slow, threatening little rumble that suggests she’s finally had enough.
“Is this happening?”
Poppy appears beside me and gasps. “Are they—are theyhaving a standoff?”
“Looks like it.”
George flicks an ear, hops in a slow circle, and makes direct eye contact with the dog. Muffin stays rooted, gaze locked, vibrating with judgment and ten pounds of CBD-powered restraint.
“I think she’s about to snap,” I whisper.
“She’s trying to protect her turf.”
“I respect that.”
We watch in silent horror as George casually hops down from the table.
Muffinlaunches.
Everything erupts. There’s barking. Bleating. A flying potted plant.
Poppy groans and covers her eyes. “This is a nightmare.”
I reach for the door. “No,” I say. “This is Tuesday.”
