“When you’re sneaking up on people? Yes.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. You were distracted by your war with gravity.”
She adjusts the headlamp, which just makes her look like a deranged miner. “These lights won’t hang themselves.”
“They could. Tomorrow. When humans typically work.”
“Tomorrow’s packed. Florist at seven, caterer at eight, final sound check at—”
“So you’re doing it now. At midnight. On a broken ladder.”
“It’s not broken. It’s… vintage.”
The ladder creaks ominously.
“Get down.”
“No.”
“Poppy.”
“Dean.”
“You’re gonna fall and break your neck. Then I’ll have to find a new wedding planner right before—”
“Your concern is touching.”
“Get. Down.”
She sighs but climbs down. The ladder immediately lists to one side.
“See? Vintage.”
“Death trap.” I grab the string of lights from her hands. “What are you even trying to do?”
“Soft perimeter lighting for the cocktail hour. Ivy wantsmagical garden partynotsuburban barbecue.”
“At midnight?”
She shrugs. The movement makes her headlamp slide sideways. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I should go back inside. Should let her deal with her insomnia and questionable ladder choices alone.
Instead, I say, “Hold this.”
I pass her one end of the lights and grab the other. We work in silence, stringing them through the pergola beams. Her on one side, me on the other. Meeting in the middle.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I ask.
“Brain won’t shut off. You?”
“Same.”
“What’s keeping the great Dean Whitaker awake? Billable hours? Existential dread?”
“Poppy Monroe doing construction in my backyard.”
She glances down from the ladder, her headlamp flickering like a dying star. “I’m hardly doing construction—shit.” The clip slips from her fingers. “These clips are evil.”
