“Uh-huh.” She’s watching me in the mirror now, a small smile playing at her lips. “Is that why you’re being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.” But my voice pitches up slightly, defensive.
“You’re totally being weird.” She turns to face me fully, studying my expression.
Before I can argue, Mason appears in the doorway looking green. Actually green, like he might be sick all over Ivy’s pristine white bathmat.
“Babe? We need a minute.” His voice is tight, strained.
Ivy’s face falls, all the calm I just built evaporating. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just… wedding jitters. Guy stuff.” But his hands are shaking where they grip the doorframe.
“Guy stuff?” I question, because that’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.
“Just need to talk. Privately.” He looks at me pointedly.
I give them space but hover near the door because I’m nosy and also because Mason looks like he might puke or bolt, and I need to know which emergency I’m dealing with.
“—Mom’s being impossible,” I hear him say, voice muffled. “And Dad brought Kevin.”
“Your cousin Kevin?” Ivy’s voice rises slightly.
“My perfect surgeon cousin Kevin who Mom wishes was her son instead.” The bitterness in his tone is sharp, cutting.
“Mason—”
“What if she’s right? What if I’m not—” His voice cracks, and my heart squeezes.
“Stop.” Ivy’s voice is firm now, steel underneath the gentleness. “Look at me.”
There’s shuffling. Soft voices I can’t make out. The quiet murmur of comfort, reassurance.
Then Ivy laughs, bright and clear. “Your mom can suck it. I’m marrying you, not her perfect son fantasy.”
“Yeah?” He sounds young, uncertain.
“Yeah. I love you, Mace. Forever.”
“I love you too,” he says softly. Then there are kissing sounds, and just as I’m starting to feel like a creeper, Ivy laughs again, lighter this time.
“Now go. Poppy needs to fix my allegedly wonky eyebrows.”
I step away quickly, pretending I wasn’t listening. Crisis averted. Thank God.
“Poppy!” CeCe calls from downstairs, her voice echoing up. “Hair and makeup’s here!”
Right. Back to work.
My phone buzzes. Flower delivery is here. Caterer’s on schedule. DJ confirmed. Everything is falling into place like dominoes, one after another. Everything except my ability to function around Dean Whitaker. Oh, and my missing guitarist. The thought hits me like cold water, and my stomach drops. Now I feel like the one who might puke.
I can’t think about last night. About sleeping on his couch. About him tucking a blanket around me while I slept, the gentleness of it. About waking up to find him in the chair across from me, a book on his chest, like he’d been watching over us.
I can’t do any of this right now. Six hours until the wedding.
Six hours to pull off a miracle.
Six hours until I prove I can do this.
