Page 102 of The Grump Next Door
Our eyes meet.
And I know—I know—we’re both thinking about the rain.
“Ready?” CeCe asks.
No. Not even a little bit.
“Let’s do this.”
We walk in together, and I can feel his eyes tracking me across the room. The rehearsal dinner officially starts in ten minutes.
But the tension between us?
That started two hours ago in a storm.
And something tells me it’s only going to get worse.
Chapter Twenty
The Rehearsal Dinner Rescue
Dean
The rehearsal dinner is at a pretentious farm-to-table place that charges thirty bucks for what’s essentially a salad. I’m nursing a whiskey and actively avoiding my grandmother when a woman who looks like she raided a vintage boutique and a crystal shop approaches.
“You must be Dean.” Her voice has a knowing quality that immediately puts me on edge. “I’m Gloria. Poppy’s aunt.”
Ah, the flower witch. We haven’t been officially introduced. She’s wearing what I can only describe as aggressive bohemian—flowing pants, bangles that jingle with every gesture, and earrings that could double as wind chimes.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, offering my hand.
She studies me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen, her grip surprisingly firm. “So you’re the one who’s been giving my niece fits.”
Fits?
“I haven’t—” I start, but she’s already smiling as if she can see right through me.
“She called me Tuesday night. Something about a goat and a man who compartmentalizes his feelings.”
My jaw tightens involuntarily. “I don’t compartmentalize—” I pause. Shit. I do compartmentalize my feelings. “That’s not relevant.”
“Mhm.” She sips what looks like champagne with flowers floating in it. Because of course. “You know, Poppy doesn’t usually get this worked up about clients.”
“I’m not a client. I’m an obstacle.” The words come out harder than I intend.
“Is that what you think you are?” She lifts her drink, and her bangles chime softly.
Before I can answer, the door opens.
And Poppy walks in.
The world does this annoying thing where it slows down, like I’m in some awful rom-com montage. She’s wearing a deep green dress that hits mid-thigh, her hair is down and wavy, and she’s laughing at something CeCe is saying. The sound carries across the restaurant, bright and unguarded.
Fuck.
My brain immediately supplies a dozen inappropriate thoughts. Her legs in those heels. The way that dress would look on my bedroom floor. How her hair would feel wrapped around my—
“Dean, darling, there you are!”
