The late afternoon sun pours over the vineyards of Mont-Tremblant, stretching long shadows across the wedding pavilion. Poppie spent six hours turning it into what the bride called a "garden of eternal vows."

Her curls are falling out of their pins. There are petals stuck to her strawberry-print dress. Her cheeks are flushed from running around trying to keep the anemones alive.

Breathe. Just breathe. She presses a hand to her chest and tries to slow her breathing.

The bride—a mix of sweet and high-maintenance—had begged her to stay for the reception. "You’re part of the magic now," she’d said, practically forcing a champagne flute into Poppie’s hands.

She hasn’t taken a sip. Alcohol makes her overshare, and she’s already way too good at telling strangers her whole life story.

The DJ calls for the bouquet toss. Poppie hangs back, mostly hidden behind a topiary swan, just watching as the guests crowd toward the dance floor, laughing and elbowing each other. She’s never joined one before.

Tradition feels like a lot—especially when she’s never even held hands with someone for more than five seconds.

The crowd shifts. Someone bumps her elbow. Suddenly she’s pushed forward, and her lace-trimmed pocket catches on a chair.

The bouquet flies through the air—white roses, ivy, and too many ribbons. Poppie’s arms shoot up without thinking. Years of floral arranging have made her fast.

Oh no oh no oh no—

Someone bumps into her. Their hands brush. Fingers get tangled in the same trailing ribbon.

For a second, everything feels weirdly still. She notices the warmth of the person next to her, and the scent—something citrusy, like bergamot, cutting through all the flowers clinging to her skin.

They grab it at the same time.

Poppie freezes. Her eyes go wide as she turns to see who she just caught the bouquet with.

A bridesmaid. Her.

Poppie’s breath catches. Her fingers are shaking, and her bra strap has slipped off her shoulder again. She’s suddenly way too aware that her thighs are pressed against the bridesmaid's soft lilac chiffon dress.

"Désolée!" Poppie blurts, dropping the bouquet like it shocked her. Her Québécois accent slips out fast and heavy. "I didn’t mean to—you should have it! I’m just the florist. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—" Her voice cracks. Poppie’s stomach turns over. She sways slightly, trying to stay upright.

Say something cool. Or funny. Just not totally embarrassing.

She swallows. "So... I think this means we’re both on the hook now. For marriage. Not to each other—unless, uh..." Her eyes go wide. "Nope. That was supposed to be a joke. Kind of."

Her smile wobbles. She already regrets everything that just came out of her mouth.