Poppy Monroe.
Soon to be Poppy MonroeWhitaker.
My whole world.
Chapter Forty-One
Happiness Overload
Poppy
He’s crying.
Dean Whitaker, terror of the New York legal system, is standing at our altar with tears running down his stupid perfect face.
“You okay?” Dad whispers.
“No,” I whisper back. “He’s crying. I’m going to die.”
“From happiness?”
“From complete emotional overload.”
We start walking. Every step feels huge. Monumental. Like I’m walking toward the rest of my life.
Which, technically, I am.
Dean’s not even trying to hide it. Just standing there in his perfect tux, watching me like I’m everything, tears tracking down his cheeks while his best friend Nate hands him tissues.
I lose it.
“Don’t you dare,” CeCe mouths from her bridesmaid spot.
Too late. I’m crying. Dad’s crying. Pretty sure George is crying, though that might just be him eating something new.
We reach the altar. Dad kisses my cheek, hands me over to Dean with a “Take care of her” that’s both threat and blessing.
“Hi,” Dean says, taking my hands. His voice trembles a little and so do my knees.
“Hi.”
“You made it.”
“Did you doubt?”
“Never.” He squeezes my fingers. “You look—”
“I know. You already said.”
“Worth saying again.” He leans closer, whispers, “Also, your veil’s missing.”
“George ate it.”
“Of course he did.” He’s smiling through the tears. “Perfect. It’s perfect.”
Father Murphy clears his throat. “Shall we begin?”
“Wait,” I say. Everyone freezes. “Dean’s crying. I need to document this.”
