Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
She gives me a false smile. “Only by eight minutes. But I’m sure we can manage.”
Was that an eight-minute kiss? I lost track of all time. Did Lake? Something coils tight in my chest. I ignore the tension, the way I feel like a jack-in-the-box. “What order do you want to do things in?”
“Let’s get you in the dress first. Then the kiss,” she bites out as she opens the door with the Closed sign on it then peers behind us, scanning the sidewalk. “Did you bring a subject?”
“My wedding date,” I say, but I feel foolish all over again. That kiss scrambled my brain.
“And where is he?”
“He’ll be right in,” I say, but I feel like I’m covering something up, like a girl making an excuse for a guy. I switch to problem-solving mode, trying to wrest control of the situation with a quick answer. “I’ll get the dress on though.”
Before I can take another step, she darts out a hand, her bony fingers circling my wrist. “The same one as before?”
I give her a look like she can’t be serious. “Yes, of course it’s the same guy.”
Her lips twitch. “Good. We love a glow-up.”
There’s that word again. And I get it. Really I do. It’s just so surreal to be the glow-up. But this is what I got myself into when I told my sister I’d get a date for her wedding.
I march into the shop, greeted by soft floral perfume, tasteful lighting, and Ella Fitzgerald music setting the vibe. I nod at the videographer, who’s waiting with mini lights already set up around her phone camera, then say hi to a gray-haired woman at the counter wearing a shimmery blue dress. The shop owner, I remember from my first visit here. I flash my I’m Caroline’s sister and I’m not going to mess it up for her smile. “Your shop is so pretty,” I say to her.
“Thanks, love,” she says to me in a warm voice that sounds like she’s from London. Her cheeks are rosy in her pale complexion, and her silvery eyes twinkle. “Your dress is ready for you. It’s in a dressing room at the back. The one with the red heart on the door.”
“Thank you.” I head straight past the racks of clothes to a hallway at the back of the shop.
There are two dressing rooms, and a wreath-like heart made of dried rose petals hangs on one of them. I yank it open. My black vintage dress with spaghetti straps hangs on a padded pink hanger.
“I’ll just get this on,” I say to no one, but really, to me, as I zoom into fix-it mode.
Inside, I tug off my sweater, skim off my pants, and shimmy into the dress. I’m zipping it up when the zipper snags.
“Crap,” I mutter, right as the heavy sound of footsteps grows louder. Strong, purposeful footsteps. I pretzel my arms behind my back a little more, trying to loosen the zipper. But its stubborn metal teeth refuse to budge.
“C’mon,” I grunt, fighting with it.
“Remy.” Lake’s voice is clear, like an order from the other side of the door.
It sends a zing through me, and I wish it didn’t.
“I’ll be out in a second,” I say, all chipper and upbeat.
His big hand curls over the top of the dressing room door. “I didn’t want it to end.”
I freeze, my hands on the zipper. “What?”
“That kiss,” he adds, lowering his voice, like he knows we can’t act in public as if there might be any questions about our romance, any confusion.
“Oh. Okay,” I say, my heart beating irritatingly faster.
“At all,” he adds, emphasizing each word.
I purse my lips. I don’t want to let on to Lake that I was doubting him. Or really, me. I don’t want him to know that I thought—and it felt so important a few minutes ago—that he didn’t want to kiss me with the same ferocity I wanted to kiss him. “It’s all good,” I say as breezily as I can muster.
“Are you dressed?”
“Yes, but the zipper is stuck.”
“Let me in. I’ll help.”
I sigh, but I don’t fight him. I let go of the naughty zipper and open the door. He joins me in the dressing room, closing it shut behind me with a decisive click. The sound of footsteps floats past my ears, but they don’t sound like Fallon’s ballet flats. More like heels, but they fade quickly enough.
Lake looks me up and down, his icy blue eyes like midnight flames, his voice rumbling in his throat. “Your dress,” he says, raw and guttural.
“It’s stuck,” I whisper.
He moves behind me, runs a hand along the fabric, then gently, carefully wiggles the zipper from side to side. I try not to tremble from his fingers on me as he slides the zipper up, up, up.