The kitchen’s been transformed into what looks like a grief bakery. Cookies everywhere. Muffins. Is that a freaking pie?
“Stress baking?” I ask Mason.
“I made brownies,” he says helplessly. “And scones. And… I think that’s banana bread?”
“Wow.”
Dean’s at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes. Because of course he’s the one handling the chaos cleanup.
“Where’s Ivy?” I ask.
“Living room. Slightly drunk.”
“Perfect. Don’t let her come up for twenty minutes.”
I head for the stairs, garment bag over my shoulder.
“Poppy.”
I turn. Dean’s watching me, dish towel in hand.
“Thank you,” he says. Simple. Sincere.
“Thank her when it fits.”
Upstairs, I spread the dress on the bed and hold my breath.
It’s not the same. It can’t be. But it’s close. Ivory silk, similar silhouette, and Greta worked actual magic with the beading. Different pattern but same vibe. Romantic. Classic. Very Ivy.
I text Dean.
ME:Send her up. Alone.
ME:And maybe have tissues ready.
A minute later, Ivy appears in the doorway. Mascara fixed, buzz fading, hope warring with dread on her face.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her.
“Poppy—”
“Trust me.”
She does.
I help her into the dress, zip it carefully, adjust the shoulders.
“Okay. Look.”
She opens her eyes. Stares at the mirror.
Silence.
“I know it’s not the same,” I start. “But Greta matched the bodice structure, and the beading is actually—”
“It’s perfect.”
I blink. “It is?”
