So I focus on my champagne.
The bubbles hitimmediately.
And wow. Have I eaten today? Do goat-related cardio bursts burn more calories than I realized? Becausethree sipsin, I’m feeling it—light, warm, and maybe slightly floaty.
Dean catches me looking at the piano.
“You play?” he asks, his tone casual.
I shake my head. “No. But IpretendI can every December when I try to learn Christmas carols and give up by New Year’s Eve.”
His mouth twitches. “Tragic.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to conquer ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ since 2014.”
Ivy watches us from the rim of her glass, her gaze sharp and knowing, but she doesn’t say anything.
Yet.
Dean looks at me again—not a quick glance, not annoyance—just… looking. Like he’s trying to figure something out and is annoyed that he can’t.
I take another sip.
The room feels warmer now.
Mason’s telling a story—something about how he proposed to Ivy and accidentally dropped the ring in a bowl of pasta. Ivy’s groaning and laughing. The moment’s easy. Unstaged.
I glance at Dean.
He’s not laughing. Not really. But there’s something there—a shift, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.
“You should try smiling more,” I tease. “It’s good for your blood pressure.”
“Is that a medical opinion?”
“That’s a ‘your jaw is permanently clenched’ opinion.”
He exhales—a quiet little sound—but I sense there’s something deep beneath his stony surface. He’s like an iceberg.
I take another sip of champagne, my eyes on Dean. “Do you even like weddings?”
He huffs. “I like contracts. And prenups. And legal briefs.”
“So that’s a no.”
He doesn’t look at me when he replies, but I hear the shift in his voice. “I like the idea of someone believing in something that much.”
I blink.
Then he actuallydoessmile—small, lazy, and completely unexpected—and it hits me, all at once, how stupidly cute he is when he forgets to be annoyed with me.
Yep. Champagne’s gone straight to my head.
“I’m just gonna—yeah,” I murmur, standing a little too fast. “Get back to work.”
I step outside into the afternoon sun, hoping the air will clear my head and maybe cool the flush rising up my neck. It doesn’t.
Dean’s smile—real, fleeting, totally unsanctioned—is still playing in my head.
