Poppy
The scream pierces the morning at 7:43 a.m.
Not a cute littleoh noscream. A full-on, horror-movie, someone’s-been-murdered scream that makes me drop my coffee and sprint toward the main house in yesterday’s sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt without a bra.
I burst through the back door without knocking because, well, someone’s dying.
“What happened? Who’s hurt? Do we need—”
I stop.
Ivy’s standing in the middle of the kitchen in her wedding dress. Or what used to be her wedding dress. Now it’s…
“Is that… red wine?” I ask.
She nods, tears streaming down her face. “I was trying it on, and Mason brought me coffee, but then Muffin ran between my legs, and I tripped, and the coffee hit the wine bottle on the counter, and—”
“Breathe.”
“IT’S RUINED.”
The dress is screwed. Like, properly screwed. Red wine splattered across the entire left side, coffee stains down the front. She looks like a very expensive murder victim.
“The wedding’s in two days,” she whispers. “Two days, and I have no dress, and—”
“Hey.” I grab her shoulders. “Look at me.”
She does. Mascara is everywhere. Full raccoon mode.
“We’re gonna fix this.”
“How? It’s vintage Vera Wang! My grandmother’s veil goes with this specific dress! The alterations took six weeks!”
Mason appears in the doorway, looking like he might vomit. “I’m so sorry, babe, I didn’t see Muffin, and—”
“Not helping,” I tell him.
“Right. Shutting up.”
“Where’s Dean?”
“Office. Working.”
Of course he is.
“Okay.” I turn back to Ivy. “Take off the dress. Carefully.”
“Why? It’s ruined.”
“Because I need to see the label and construction. Go.”
She disappears upstairs. Mason hovers, wringing his hands.
“This is my fault,” he says.
“Unless you trained Muffin to be a wine assassin, no, it’s not.”
“She’s gonna hate me.”
