Page 127 of The Grump Next Door
Reality crashes back. I’m working. This is a job. I have responsibilities.
“Shit. I have to—” I gesture vaguely toward the chaos, the house, my actual purpose here.
“Go.” His voice is gentle, understanding. “Before she sends a search party.”
I turn to leave. Make it three steps, grass crunching under my heels. Turn back.
“Dean?”
“Mm?” He looks up again, waiting.
“Thank you.”
He looks at me. Does that thing where his eyes say everything his mouth won’t. The intensity of it hits me in the chest, steals my breath. I feel it everywhere.
“Go,” he says softly. “We’ll be here.”
I go.
But I can hear his music following me. A song he wrote years ago that he’s playing now, for me, and I know—I know—I’m completely screwed.
Because how do you not fall in love with a man who resurrects his buried dreams just to save yours?
Twenty-eight minutes until showtime. Ivy’s pacing in the bridal suite like a caged leopard in Vera Wang, the dress swishing with each agitated turn.
“Where were you?” She spins, veil whipping around, nearly taking out a lamp. “I’m freaking out. What if Mason changes his mind? What if I trip? What if—”
“Breathe.” I grab her shoulders, grounding her. “Dean and Mason are playing music for your ceremony.”
She blinks, the words not computing. “What?”
“Guitar and bass. They learned all your songs this morning.” I squeeze her shoulders gently.
“Dean’s playing guitar?” Her voice goes up an octave.
“Apparently.” I’m still processing it myself.
Her face does something complicated—surprise melting into understanding, then into something soft and knowing. “Oh. Oh, Poppy.”
“What?” I don’t like that tone. That’s the tone of someone who sees too much.
She’s still looking at me. Still concerned, eyes too perceptive. “He hasn’t played since Emily.”
The name hits me cold. A bucket of ice water down my spine. “Who’s Emily?”
Ivy sits carefully on the upholstered bench, gathering her skirt with practiced movements. Careful with the dress. “His ex-fiancée, Emily.”
Ex-fiancée. There’s an ex-fiancée?
I sit too, sinking into the nearest chair like my legs have given up. Because, frankly, that does not compute. Dean was engaged? Dean, who acts like feelings are a communicable disease?
“They were together six years,” she continues, staring at her hands. “Met in law school. Dean was different then. Played music all the time. Open mics, little gigs. He was gonna—” She stops, swallows hard. Clears her throat. “Anyway. They got engaged. Had a loft downtown. Two weeks before the wedding, she left.”
“She left?” My voice sounds hollow.
Ivy stands, walks toward the mirror, adjusting her veil with shaking fingers. “Just… left. Said she’d fallen out of love. That he was too much. Too intense. Too… Dean.”
My chest hurts. Actually physically hurts, like something’s squeezing my ribs. “That’s—” Of course he’s too Dean. But, like… maybe in a good way?
