Page 114 of The Grump Next Door
Chapter Twenty-One
Wedding Day Chaos
Poppy
I wake up on Dean’s couch at 5:42 a.m., Muffin snoring against my stomach, and reality hits me like a sledgehammer.
Shit.
I slept here. In my dress. After ugly-humming Motown to a neurotic dog while Dean watched with that look that made my chest crack open.
I can’t process that now. It’s wedding day.
I carefully extract myself from the blanket—when did that get here?—and tiptoe toward the door. My dress is wrinkled beyond salvation, my hair feels like a bird’s nest, and there’s definitely dog drool on my shoulder. Perfect.
Muffin cracks one eye open, judges me with that special contempt only dogs can muster, and goes right back to sleep.
Smart dog.
The guest house is freezing when I stumble in, the morning air biting through my thin dress. CeCe is still passed out, one leg hanging off the bed, yesterday’s mascara giving her raccoon eyes. She’s snoring softly, dead to the world.
I shower, change, and armor myself in my responsible wedding planner outfit—a burgundy silk dress that projects “I definitely didn’t just do the walk of shame from your brother’s couch.” The fabric is smooth and professional, a shield against the chaos threatening to swallow me whole.
By the time my phone buzzes at 6:47, I’m already three coffees deep and cross-referencing my lists. My hands are steady now, controlled. I can do this. I’ve done this a hundred times.
TEXT:Can’t make it today. Food poisoning. Sorry.
I stare at the screen, blink, and read it again.
No.
No, no, no.
“Fuck.”The word comes out small. Broken. The phone trembles in my grip. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”
CeCe pokes her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth, foam at the corners. “What’s wrong?”
“The guitarist.” My voice sounds weird. Far away, like it’s coming from underwater. “For the ceremony. He just… canceled.”
“Oh shit.” The toothbrush stops mid-brush.
“The ceremony’s in a matter of hours.” I’m doing that thing where my voice gets higher with each word, tighter, like a string about to snap. “Where am I supposed to find a classical guitarist in rural New York in a matter of HOURS?”
“Okay, breathe.” CeCe steps out of the bathroom, concern creasing her forehead.
“I can’t breathe. This is Ivy’s wedding. The wedding that’s supposed to save my career. The wedding that—” I stop. I can’t say the rest out loud. My throat closes around the words.
The wedding I’ve been using to prove I’m not a complete failure.
“We’ll figure it out,” CeCe says, but even she sounds worried. Her eyes are too wide, her usual confidence cracking.
I’m already scrolling through my phone, fingers flying, calling every musician in a fifty-mile radius. Each ring feels like an eternity.
“Hello, hi, I need a guitarist for—”
“Booked.” Click.
“Is there any way—”
