"Zach," she called, suspicion in each syllable. "Why is there a fairy godmother's personal gift box on our coffee table?"
He appeared from the kitchen, suspiciously casual in socked feet, holding a fresh latte from their espresso machine.
He glanced to the box like it had simply occurred to him to be incredibly thoughtful on a random Tuesday.
"Oh, that? Found it hanging around. Looks like it's for you." His voice practically hummed innocence.
Piper took the fresh coffee from him, glanced from the foam heart in her cup to the gift. "What'd you do?"
Zach's shrug was infuriatingly clean. "Early anniversary. Or random Tuesday. You pick."
He took a sip of his own drink and smirked like a man confident he wouldn't be murdered in his own home.
The box made the slightest crinkle when she touched it, as if warning her. She lifted the lid slowly, certain it would release butterflies or a puppy or something.
Nestled in layers of crisp tissue was a white linen dress with pink embroidered tulips. Nothing flashy, but something undeniably special.
The fabric was light as a sigh, with delicate ribbon straps and seams so graceful they curved inward like they already knew the shape of her. The fabric whispered against her fingers as she lifted it, and she caught herself holding her breath again.
Was this one of Zach's ideas, or had someone helped? She tried to picture him, earnest with his sewing machine while he stitched together the fabric. The idea made her smile.
Just once. Quiet, involuntary. She let out a little gasp she would totally deny later.
Beneath it, folded like a secret, were ballet flats. Ivory with more tiny tulips stitched across the toe.
Zach crouched beside her, all soft knees and cocky nerves, and said, "I got this," so quietly it might've been a joke.
But then he reached for her foot and gently slipped on one of the shoes like the floor was a ballroom and not a battlefield of laundry baskets and unfolded towels.
The fit? Unfair.
She looked down at him, blinking, mouth parted but no words arriving.
Because they had a work party to throw. Co-workers to impress. Potato salad to chill. And here he was, reenacting a fairy tale with bedhead.
The backyard party was just a little thing for the end of wedding season.
Fine. She wore the dress.
All day.
She floated through all the errands and folding and prep lists while swatting away Zach's smugness every time he caught her smoothing the fabric like she couldn't believe it was real. But then she got caught up with Babushka at the gourmet market, and by the time she finally showed up for final touches, it was almost time for the guests to arrive.
She stepped outside.
And the moment her foot touched the deck, she stopped.
There it stood.
The arch.
Twined in tulips with tulle catching the breeze.
Piper didn't say anything. Neither did her heart. That sucker skipped, like it suddenly had stage fright.
The fairy lights were twinkling against dusk like champagne stars. The flowers felt a little too intentional, the chairs arranged in two shockingly symmetrical rows around a path lined in petals. There was even a string quartet setting up. This wasn't a Bluetooth speaker with a wedding playlist.
There was Borodinsky set out next to a vodka-serving ice sculpture that could be qualified as a religious experience. The chocolate three-tiered cake was somehow both whimsical and Martha Stewart-certified.
