“You taste like disappointment.” It’s out before I can stop it.
He blinks. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Your face doesn’t make sense.” I sound like I’m twelve. I don’t care.
Ivy giggles. Actually giggles, hand over her mouth. “You two are cute.”
“We’re not cute,” we say together, then freeze.
“We’re professionally hostile,” I add quickly, cheeks warming.
“Professionally hostile but make it cute,” CeCe chimes in from where she’s been watching this whole disaster unfold.
Thunder crashes. The lights flicker.
“Um,” Deb says. “Should we maybe—”
The wind hits like a freight train. Even from inside, we can hear it. Howling. Angry. Very much not good for tents.
“THE TENT!” I jump up so fast I knock over the tray of beets. Crimson spreads across Dean’s pristine white tablecloth like a crime scene.
We all rush to the window.
The reception tent is… fighting. That’s the only word for it. Fighting the wind and losing. One corner’s already lifted, ropes straining, the whole structure swaying like a drunk giant.
“Oh no. Oh no oh no—”
I’m already running. Out the door, into the storm that came out of nowhere because apparently the universe hates me specifically.
The wind hits like a slap. Rain sideways. Hair immediately plastered to my face.
“POPPY!” Dean’s right behind me. “You can’t—”
“IT’S GONNA COLLAPSE!”
“SO??”
“SO IT’S MY TENT!”
“IT’S A RENTAL!”
“IT’S MY RESPONSIBILITY!”
I grab one of the loose ropes. The wind tries to yank it away. Dean grabs it too, his hands covering mine.
“This is insane!”
“WELCOME TO WEDDING PLANNING!”
We pull. Hard. The tent fights back.
“On three!” he yells over the wind.
“What happens on three?”
“I don’t know! I’m making this up!”
I laugh. Can’t help it. We’re in the middle of a storm, wrestling a tent, both soaked within seconds, and he’s making it up as he goes.
