Page 40 of The Grump Next Door
Mason grins.
Dean closes his eyes briefly, as if negotiating with the universe.
I lean in. “Hey,” I whisper, “remember how relieved you were when I said George was getting picked up?”
Dean doesn’t respond, just glares.
George lets out a triumphant bleat behind us, as if he knowsexactlywhat he’s done.
Once George is secured, there’s a pause. A silence.
Dean runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “Well. You’re here now.”
I glance at Ivy and Mason, then back at him.
He sighs. “How about a toast? I think I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the wine fridge.”
Ivy perks up. Mason immediately says, “Yes. Thank you.”
I’m about to politely excuse myself—because surely this is a family thing, and I’m still faintly goat-scented—when Dean turns to me.
“Poppy?”
My head lifts. “Me?”
He nods. “You’re part of the chaos. Might as well raise a glass to it.”
For reasons I don’t fully understand, that one sentence shifts something in my chest. I follow them inside.
Dean’s house is not what I expected.
It’s warm, quiet, and lived-in without being cluttered. Built-ins along the walls are filled with books and records.Soft leather couches invite relaxation. Framed black-and-white photographs, likely expensive, adorn the walls. Everything smells faintly of cedar, soap, and something citrusy that Irefuseto find attractive.
Until now, I’ve only seen the entryway. The guest house felt like a cozy Airbnb, but this feels likehim.
There’s a piano in the corner. Of course there is. A dark upright with stacked sheet music beside it and a brass lamp perched on top, suggesting it’s used regularly.
Dean disappears into the kitchen and returns with four crystal champagne flutes.
Ivy pops the cork with a grin and pours, the fizz filling the silence.
We gather in the living room—Mason on the couch, Ivy curled beside him, Dean standing near the window with one hand in his pocket and a glass in the other. I perch on the edge of a leather chair, pretending not to notice how the cushions sink just enough to throw me off balance.
“To the bride and groom,” Dean says, raising his glass.
We all echo the toast.
I sip. It’s cold, fizzy, and delicious.
Now that the adrenaline from their surprise arrival has worn off, I finally get a moment tolookat Ivy and Mason properly.
They’re infuriatingly perfect.
Ivy, sipping from her glass, tucks a tendril of hair behind one ear, her skin practically glowing. She makes “bridal” look effortless—like it’s always been part of her DNA.
And Mason? He’s tall, nearly as tall as Dean, but scruffy, with sun-streaked curls shoved under a backward baseball cap. He’s dressed in a T-shirt, and his jeans are ripped at the knees in that“on purpose”kind of way. Ivy is polished and sweet, while Mason exudes charming boyish energy. They are adorable together.
I take another sip and feel Dean’s eyes on me.
