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)
“Good,” I say, then he looks to my mouth.
And I forget my line. I forget the script. I forget everything but what he said to me about messing up my makeup.
Neither of us says a word. I don’t know who makes the first move, but we collide. In mere seconds, he’s kissing me fiercely, passionately, hands roping in my hair, hungry mouth devouring mine. He’s relentless—determined, it seems, to destroy my makeup. As he kisses me, he dips me in the middle of the secondhand dress shop, his strong arm wrapped around me.
When the kiss ends, he tugs me back up, studies my lips, and smirks. “Sorry, Fresh Face.”
There’s no makeup that can withstand that kind of kiss.
23
IF YOU’RE READING THIS
REMY
After a few more takes, since of course Fresh Face doesn’t want to show the kind of kiss that can decimate lipstick, we finally get one that shows off the lipstick’s staying power even after a ten-second, knee-weakening kiss.
Fallon dismisses us, then leaves, the videographer dutifully following.
I change back into my clothes, then bring the black dress to the front of the shop, where the owner’s working at the counter. “You did a great job taking it in. It fits perfectly.”
“I have a brilliant seamstress. I’ll let her know,” she says, then pauses, her silvery gaze wise and curious as she glances from me to Lake, who’s a few feet away from me. “You two are quite cute.”
Lake turns toward her, then steps closer to me. “She is,” he says, answering her as he looks at me, only at me. For a few breath-held seconds, it’s as if the world spins away.
I blink, trying to come out of the haze as I tear my attention from him. “He is pretty cute.”
Lake snarls. “I’m not cute.”
I tap my chin, considering. “Handsome? Hot? Smoking? Strapping? Studly?”
“All of the above,” Lake answers.
The shop owner laughs, then her laughter fades as she gestures to the two of us. “This is nice to see. He’s a much better choice than your ex.”
My cheeks burn for a few seconds, but for some reason I don’t feel so embarrassed anymore by the Jumbotron incident, and how far and wide it’s spread. I’m not sure if it’s because of Lake or this woman, and the genuine sparkle in her eyes. She seems to really mean it. Like she’s the kind of human who legitimately roots for redemption after a public heartbreak story.
Like mine.
Lake wraps an arm around my shoulders, then meets her eyes. “Couldn’t agree more. Been wanting to see this myself for a long time too.”
There he goes again. The man is seriously committed to this origin story of the long-standing crush. It gives me butterflies.
The shop owner arches a curious brow, then nods toward the back of the shop. “Give me a few minutes to hang it in a garment bag so you can take it home.”
“Sounds great.”
“I’m about to set out some lovely new sweaters and such. Clothes from an estate sale,” she says, then waves to the pink chair. A mountain of neatly folded items sits on the chair, with dresses strewn over the back and jackets across the arm. “Feel free to take a look while you wait.”
“Sure,” I say, wandering over to the chair as she strides to the back of the shop, leaving Lake and me alone.
The store is quiet now; there’s a lull in the traffic outside. The Ella Fitzgerald music from earlier has shifted to something newer, poppier. Ivy May, I think, a twenty-five-year-old pink-haired Brit who can dance and sing about heartbreak.
“Mind if I look? Maybe I can find that dream argyle sweater for your sister,” I say as Lake leans against the counter.
“As a good BF I’d never get in the way of you thrifting.”
I roll my eyes. “I see you’re committed to the role.”
“So committed,” he says.
“Like I said, you’re cute.”
He growls. “Not cute.”
“So cute.”
He growls more deeply. “Cute things don’t give good growl.”
I smile as he drops another mention of my podcast, then paw through the sweaters, but there’s nothing quite right for Clem or me. I riffle through the dresses on the back of the chair, when something rustles under my hand.
Feels like paper maybe, but it’s also lacy. It’s so different from the rest of the clothes.
I tug on the fabric, pulling more of the material, and something catches my eye and my hand. There’s a piece of paper pinned inside the bodice of the dress, and it’s—a wedding dress.
And it doesn’t look old. It looks new and stylish.
The air whooshes from my lungs—estate sale. Did the bride die? I stare at the bodice of the dress and the piece of paper folded up inside it, pinned, with the words “Five Things To Do Before I Say I Do” on it.
I swallow, my mind racing, my eyes darting around the shop. I peer toward the back, looking for the shopkeeper. She’s still busy.