“You told Poppy she couldn’t use the north lawn?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Poppy? Oh yeah, the wedding planner from hell. “The slope is dangerous, Mason. The roots areexposed. I’m not risking a lawsuit because your fiancée likes the lighting.”
“She doesn’t justlikeit, man. She’s been dreaming about that ceremony spot for months. It’s not about lighting—it’s about her.”
“I said no.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re doing everyone a favor just by showing up. Like saying yes to this wedding means you can say no to every other detail without question.”
I sit on the edge of the desk, my headache pulsing harder now. “I let you use the estate, Mason. I cleared my schedule. I didn’t even charge you.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No—you just asked for everything else.”
The silence stretches long enough that I almost think he’s going to hang up.
Then, softer, he says, “You know this isn’t about the lawn, right?”
I close my eyes.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
And I do. It’s about the fact that I always put work first. That I don’t show up unless I’m needed. That I’m halfway through a name-partner-making case while he’s planning a wedding, and it feels like we live on different planets.
But I can’t be the guy who’s sentimental. That’s never been my role.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
Mason exhales. “Thank you.”
“I said I’llsee.”
“Still a win.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
I sit there for a long minute, staring at my reflection in the dark glass of the window.
Then I get up and go back to work.
Because that’s what I do.
By five, my head is pounding, my inbox resembles a war zone, and my assistant informs me she’s ordering dinner because I forgot that food is a thing humans need to function.
Again.
I should have known the day was going to be bad when the printer in the copy room started smoking, or when the two junior associates nearly tanked a brief with a formatting error, or when Feldstein chewed me out on speakerphone in front of a client.
So when I finally arrive home and spot the enormous cardboard box sitting on my front porch, nearly blocking my path to the door, my first reaction is not curiosity—it’s suspicion.
The label reads, RUSTIC BLISS EVENTS.
Of course it does.
