Page 125 of The Grump Next Door
Twenty minutes until showtime.
And I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
Not of playing guitar in front of people, but of what I’m going to say to her afterward.
When there are no more distractions, no more wedding to hide behind.
Just me and her and the truth I’ve been running from all week.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s Go Time
Poppy
The ceremony starts in thirty minutes, and I’m trying not to have a complete mental breakdown.
Everything else is perfect. The flowers are stunning—peonies and roses exactly like Ivy wanted, arrangements I spent hours perfecting. The well-dressed guests are seated, chattering quietly, sunlight filtering through the trees. Ivy is glowing in her saved dress. Mason is looking nervous but happy in his tux.
Just… no music.
“We can use Spotify,” CeCe suggests, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll hide a speaker—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
“It’s better than silence.” She’s scrolling through playlists, trying to help.
“It’s not—” I press my palms against my eyes. Hard. Stars burst behind my eyelids. “Ivy specifically wanted acoustic guitar. She had this whole vision of walking down the aisle to actual music, not some crummy speaker playing—”
That’s when I hear it.
Guitar.
An acoustic guitar.
Coming from the ceremony space.
I rush outside and stop dead. My feet literally stop working. Cement shoes in the grass.
Dean’s sitting on a stool near the arch, guitar in his lap, playing something soft and beautiful. His long fingers pluck the strings to produce something that can only be described as enchanting. He’s bent over the instrument, completely focused, and the late afternoon light catches in his hair. Mason’s beside him with a bass, grinning like he knows a secret.
Three hundred guests are seated, listening to Dean freaking Whitaker play guitar. Like it’s normal. Like my entire world isn’t tilting off its axis.
“What…” I can’t finish. Can’t breathe. Can’t process. My clipboard dangles forgotten at my side.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the rows of white chairs. And there’s something in his expression that makes my knees forget how joints work—vulnerability, determination, something raw and open. But I make my way closer, weaving between chairs, amazed at how good they sound. The notes hang in the air like something sacred.
“Musician’s here,” he says when I reach him. Casual. Like he didn’t just save my whole ass.
“You play.” It’s not a question. More like an accusation of withheld information.
“Used to.” His fingers keep moving over the strings, finding chords with muscle memory. The sound is… God. It’s beautiful. “Bit rusty.”
Rusty, my ass. He sounds like he was born with that guitar in his hands. The way his fingers move—confident, sure, creating something achingly lovely. And he looks hot. Infuriatingly, devastatingly hot.
“Dean—” My voice cracks.
“We’ve got the processional, the recessional, and that song Ivy wanted for the unity ceremony.” He’s talking to the guitar now, not looking at me. His jaw’s tight, shoulders tense. “Mason helped with the arrangements.”
