She turns, examining every angle. “It’s… God, it’s better than the original.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Was drunk. Now I’m… How did you do this?”
“Vintage shop in Hudson. German seamstress who called me an asshole in three languages. Dean’s credit card.”
“Dean paid for this?”
Something warm unfolds inside me. “Yeah.”
She stares at herself again, then at me. “Why?”
“Because it’s your wedding. And the dress doesn’t matter nearly as much as the marriage, but it also totally matters, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.”
She hugs me. Hard. Like, might-crack-a-rib hard. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Okay, crying is bad for the alterations—”
“I don’t care.” She pulls back, mascara running again. “You saved my wedding.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“No. It’s not.” She wipes her face she practically floats to the bathroom. “I have to show Mason. And Dean. And—Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re officially family now. No takebacks.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. “Thanks, Ivy.”
I head downstairs, exhausted but victorious. Dean’s still at the sink. The kitchen’s spotless. Mason’s nowhere to be seen.
“Banished him to the porch,” Dean says without turning. “He was about to start on croissants.”
“Smart.”
“Is she happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“Good.” He turns, and there’s something soft in his expression. “You did good.”
“Just doing my job.”
“No.” He steps closer. “Your job was planning the wedding. This was… more.”
We’re standing too close. Again. Always ending up in each other’s space like magnets with no sense of self-preservation.
“Dean—”
“The seamstress,” he says. “How much?”
“Check your credit card statement.”
He winces. “That bad?”
“Worth it though.”
