So I smile. Bright. Professional. Unbothered. “Hi! I’m Poppy Monroe. Wedding planner for the Lin-Whitaker event next weekend?”
He doesn’t smile back. He just looks at me. “I assumed you’d arrive earlier.”
“I would’ve,” I say, still crouched, still wiping, “but my flight was delayed, and the rental car situation was… character-building.”
His eyes flick to my foot, then back to my face.
I grin, apologetic. “Sorry, I seem to have found a small… welcome gift on the lawn.”
He doesn’t smile. Not even a polite flicker. “You’ll be staying in the carriage house. It’s unlocked.”
“Perfect.” I rise to my full height and pretend my left shoe isn’t squelching slightly. “Looking forward to settling in.”
He gestures, vaguely. “Try not to track anything inside.”
And just like that, the hotness dies a swift and fiery death.
I paste on a tight smile, because if I don’t, I might commit murder.
Ivy Lin is one of the biggest influencers on the planet and her wedding will be plastered all over social media. It’ll be the most beautiful wedding anyone’s ever seen, and it will launch my business into the stratosphere. I’ll be able to hire assistants and wedding planners to work for me. They will be the ones stepping in dog shit on grumpy extended family’s properties.
Deep breath.
I yank my rolling luggage from the trunk and I’m halfway up the stone path to the front door when I pause and look around, taking it in—not just as a guest, but as a planner.
The estate is stately but not showy, with symmetrical windows, pale green shutters, and a wraparound porch that could be dressed up with string lights and late-summer florals. There’s a quiet elegance to it, like it knows it’s beautiful and doesn’t need to try too hard. There’s even an old wooden bench under the front window that’s practicallybeggingfor welcome drinks or a seating chart display.
It’s going to be the perfect wedding.
It has to be.
I have a week and half to make it look like I have my shit together. A week and a half to figure out how to plan the best wedding anyone’s ever seen.
Should be fine.
Everything’s fine.
Chapter Two
One Week of Hell
Dean
She looks like a walking disruption.
I’m barely three seconds into meeting her, and I already know—she’s going to be a problem.
Not just because she showed up late and immediately stepped in something, or because she’s now tracking it toward my porch with an unsettling amount of optimism.
It’s the smile.
It’s too bright. Too practiced. A smile that saysI’m here to take over, now get out of my way.
I shut the front door behind me and let out a slow, measured breath. The kind I only ever use during depositions or family holidays.
The quiet inside is a relief.
I walk through the living room—cool wood floors, built-in shelves, the soft creak of a house older than I am—and place my laptop and case files on the dining room table. Everything’s tidy. Controlled. I know where every pen in this house lives.
