Nothing like the woman who wrestled a tent in the rain two hours ago. Nothing like the woman who kissed me back in my kitchen, her hands fisted in my shirt.
“You’re staring.” Mason drops into the seat beside me, stealing my whiskey glass.
“I’m observing.”
“With your eyes. That’s called staring.” He takes a swig, grinning.
“How’s Ivy?”
“Nice deflection.” He drains the rest of my whiskey, and I don’t even care. “She’s good. Happy. Thinks you and Poppy are, and I quote, ‘adorable.’“
“We’re not anything.” The words taste wrong coming out.
“Right. That’s why you’ve been eye-fucking her since she walked in.” He sets the empty glass down with a thunk.
“I haven’t—” But my protest dies when I realize he’s right. I know exactly where she is right now—third table from the left, laughing with someone’s aunt.
“Dude. You literally stopped mid-sentence when she bent over to fix that tablecloth.”
Okay. Fair. Heat crawls up my neck.
“She leaves Sunday,” I say, the words sitting heavy in my chest.
“So?” Mason leans back, studying me with that concerned-brother face.
“So what’s the point?”
Mason stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “The point? The point is she makes you smile. Actually smile. Not that weird grimace thing you do at client dinners.”
“It’s not that simple.” I run a hand through my hair, tugging slightly.
“Why?” His question is earnest, genuinely confused.
Because I knew Emily for six years—six years of conversations, shared meals, and planning a future. I knew her favorite coffee order, her childhood traumas, her favorite blue jeans, and the specific ways her best friend drove her crazy.
And it still wasn’t enough.
I’ve known Poppy for just over a week. That’s insane. Completely insane.
No matter how right it feels when she looks at me.
“Dean?” Mason watches me with that concerned-brother expression, head tilted.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, staring at my empty glass.
“Everything with you is complicated.” He takes another sip from somewhere. “Maybe try simple for once.”
Simple. Right.
Simple is not kissing your brother’s wedding planner against your kitchen wall. Simple is not spending every night checking to see if her light’s on. Simple is not this ache in my chest when I think about tomorrow—about watching her leave.
“I should mingle,” I say, already standing.
“You should talk to her.” Mason’s voice follows me.
“I should do a lot of things.”
But I stay in my seat, watching Poppy charm my parents’ friends. She catches me looking and winks.
