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“Poppy really likes Grace. Calls her a ‘breath of fresh air.’”
I land on the universal phrase for men dodging the details: “Yeah, she’s great.”
“Beer?” Dylan asks, gesturing at a nearby kiosk with engraved steins sloshing on the sign.
“You bet.”
We place our order with the surly tavern-master, then settle onto a picnic bench with our pitchers. “You’ve got to hand it to Rafe and Nichole,” Dylan grins, naming the soon-to-be happy couple. “They don’t really go for understatement.”
“As long as you and Poppy don’t try and get one-up on them, and have us all dress up in… I don’t know,Dirty Dancing-themed outfits for your wedding,” I warn him. They’re getting hitched at his hotel in the Catskills in a few weeks, and I wouldn’t put it past them to make it a crazy affair.
Dylan laughs. “Don’t say that around Poppy, you’ll give her ideas.”
He takes a long drink from his pitcher of ale, and then gives me that look again.
“I know you said that you and Grace were just a fake wedding date arrangement…” Dylan says, studying me thoughtfully. “Is that still the case?”
“Yep,” I reply, avoiding his gaze. “Did Poppy send you to give me an interrogation?”
“No way,” Dylan says, pretending to be offended. “I’m nosy all on my own, thanks.”
I snort at him and take a long drink of beer. “Well, rest assured, there’s nothing to tell,” I lie. “It’s simpler this way. We have fun together, and everyone walks away happy.”
“Mm-hmm,” Dylan smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“Some of us can hold professional boundaries,” I tell him, remembering how he and Poppy got together. She runs a business called Cupids Anonymous, crafting everything from dating app banter to marriage proposals for clients. Dylan hired her to help him win over another girl, but they wound up falling for each other in the end.
“More power to you. Personally, I think boundaries are overrated. I mean, look at me and Poppy.”
“Exactly. Look at you.”
Dylan laughs. “I’m about to marry my favorite person in the world. A terrible, cautionary tale, indeed.”
I shake my head, smiling. I’ve got nothing against other people diving headfirst into forever-after. I hope they make a go of it, I really do. But just because it worked for them, it doesn’t mean that I should lose my mind and go chasing after the same thing.
I already know, commitment and me don’t mix.
We finish our beers, catching up, until the girls return. Poppy and Dylan peel off to get ready for the wedding, and Grace smiles over at me.
“Want take the long way back?” she asks. “See more of the faire?”
I definitely do. We stroll arm in arm, talking and laughing at the sights. Around the last bend to the camp site, there are people crowding the benches in front of a low stage. An announcer calls, “Two minutes till the Warblin’ Wenches. Get your ale and file in.”
Grace turns with a grin. “Think we have a little time?”
I glance at my watch. “For a little while.” How long can it take to change into medieval garb, anyway?
“Come in, come in!” We take our seats in the stand as the band takes the stage. They’re in bawdy, corseted gowns, and, surprisingly, they sing like angels.
“Good morrow, fellow travelers,” the lead singer says. “Welcome to Warblin’ Wenches. Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” the crowd cries back. Grace tries not to laugh.
“Are they going to do that all weekend?” she murmurs.
“I thought you wanted to get into the spirit of things,” I tease her, before yelling out another, “Huzzah!”
“Now the time has come,” says the woman in the center. “To teach ye the songs of olde.”
