Mason squints. “Looks exactly like George.”
“All goats look alike,” I say, which is probably racist against goats but whatever.
“Actually,” Dean appears beside me, because of course he does, “statistically, goats have distinct facial features that—”
I elbow him. Hard.
“—that I’m sure vary greatly between George and… Steve.”
“See?” I beam at Ivy. “Totally different goat.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but the caterer’s van pulls up before she can interrogate me further.
“Oh good!” She claps. “Dean, you’re doing the tasting with us, right?”
He freezes. “What?”
“The menu tasting. I texted you yesterday.”
“I don’t recall—”
“I definitely texted you.” She’s already heading toward the van. “Mason has a client call, so you’re stepping in. Poppy will fill you in on the dietary restrictions.”
And just like that, I’m being voluntold to spend the next hour eating tiny foods with Dean Whitaker.
Kill me.
“Dietary restrictions?” he mutters as Ivy bounces away.
“Sixteen of them.”
“Sixteen?”
“Welcome to modern weddings.” I hand him my color-coded spreadsheet. “Gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, joy-free—”
“That last one’s not real.”
“Might as well be.”
Dean pauses, looks down at me and lifts one eyebrow.
“I’ll just… go and compose myself and meet you back here in thirty.”
He nods once, mouth twitching.
Thirty-six minutes later, I’ve managed to touch up my makeup and what almost constitutes a matching outfit. Cream linen pants and a basic black T-shirt. There are sandals on my feet and three bracelets on my wrist and I am ready.
Day before the wedding. I can do this. Even if George is back. Even if the sexual tension with Dean might kill me.
The caterer—a woman named Deb who looks like she could bench press me—starts setting up samples on the porch table. Tiny portions of everything. Aesthetic as hell. Probably costs more than my rent.
“Okay!” Deb claps. “We’ll start with the—”
Thunder rumbles.
We all look up.
“Thought you said it wasn’t gonna rain,” I mutter to CeCe.
