My lawn looks like a war zone.
There are trucks everywhere. Three? Four? I stop counting when I see two men attempting to erect what appears to be a circus tent where my yard used to be.
“No,” I say to no one. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh good, you’re up!”
I turn to find Poppy—because of course it’s Poppy—powerwalking across the lawn with a clipboard in one hand and what might be the world’s largest coffee in the other. She’s wearing jean shorts that should be illegal and a tank top that says “BRIDE’S BESTIE” in glitter.
“What,” I gesture at the chaos, “the hell is this?”
She doesn’t even slow down. “Tent installation. They were supposed to start at eight, but I got them here early. You’re welcome.”
“Are you insane? I’m welcome? For what?”
“For getting a jump on the day.” She consults her clipboard. “We’ve got the tent up at seven, the lighting crew at nine, and—oh, the porta-potties arrive at noon.”
I release a choked sound.
She finally looks at me. Really looks at me. And her step falters just slightly.
Right. No shirt. I forgot about the no-shirt thing.
Her eyes do a quick sweep—chest, abs, that V-thing I’ve been told is distracting—before snapping back to my face. There’s a tiny flush creeping up her neck.
Good.
“Luxury porta-potties,” she says, her voice only slightly higher. “Remember? Climate controlled. Very classy.”
“Nothing about porta-potties is classy.”
“These have chandeliers.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
A guy in a hard hat approaches. “Where do you want the second tent?”
“Second tent?” I practically growl.
Poppy doesn’t miss a beat. “Northwest corner, by the oak trees.” She turns back to me. “Reception tent and ceremony tent. Standard backup in case of rain.”
“Standard would be asking permission before turning my property into effing Coachella.”
She tilts her head. “Did you want me to wake you at 4 a.m. to ask? Because I can do that tomorrow if you prefer.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Because what am I supposed to say? That I specifically told Mason he could use the property? That I agreed to this whole circus? That technically, she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to do?
“Coffee?” she offers, holding out her cup.
“I don’t share germs with chaos agents.”
“Your loss.” She takes a deliberate sip, and I definitely don’t watch her lips wrap around the lid. “It’s got cinnamon.”
Another contractor approaches. This one’s carrying what appears to be a small chandelier.
“For the luxury toilet?” I guess.
