Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I run my hands down my sides, marveling at the feel of the fabric against my skin. I bite my lip as I imagine Jake’s eyes on me in this–how he would stiffen to feel my body beneath the soft buttery fabric.
I look up at my reflection and can’t help smiling as I picture people from Frosty Harbor seeing me in something like this. They’re used to seeing me rush around events in yoga pants or jeans, frazzled and behind the scenes. If they saw me now, I think they might have a collective stroke.
An unexpected sadness tugs at me as I stare at my reflection. Somewhere along the way, I let that expectation convince myself I didn’t care about stuff like this. About being pampered or getting to feel like a princess for a night.
I gently pinch the dress's fabric and lift it out to both sides, dipping my hip and looking at myself over my shoulder. I smile again. But tonight?
Tonight is going to be pure magic. I guess now I can understand why Cinderella didn’t care that the carriage would turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Maybe Jake isn’t really my fiancé. Maybe this whirlwind of unexpected experiences will pass by in the blink of an eye, and I’ll return to my normal life. But why can’t I enjoy it while I’m here? Why can’t I drink this up and make the most of it?
I push open the door slowly and watch Jake’s eyes widen.
“Well?” I ask.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “We’ll take it,” he says, raising his voice over his shoulder.
I laugh. “They still have to do the fitting.”
“Damn,” he says. He steps closer to me, hands lifting like he wants them on me. He seems to catch himself at the last moment and lets them drop to his sides. “You clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Are you saying I’m usually dirty?”
Jake’s grin is absolutely devilish. “I’ve seen you dirty. Can’t say I mind that side of you, either.”
Now, my cheeks probably match the pink of the dress. God. What are we even doing? What parts of this are real, and what parts are just the fiction we’re trying to weave?
“Come with me,” the woman says. “This already fits you great. But we can do better. How do you feel about letting our stylist and make-up artist spend time with you once you’re fitted?”
“I feel… great about that,” I say, laughing. “Jake, do you mind bringing Walker with us?”
“Already on it.” Jake disappears into the fitting room and returns a moment later with Walker in one arm. He’s got the folded-up travel crib in the other and the huge diaper bag slung over his other shoulder. “We’re ready.”
And then I’m whisked off through the building. Soft classical music plays over the speakers, and the faint scent of lavender fills the air. The walls are lined with flowing gowns and dresses and rolls of fabric that look like they belong in a fairy tale. I let my fingertips run along them as we walk, smiling to myself.
“Oh,” the woman says. “We also rent jewelry. I have some beautiful designer pieces you could try on. We can find something that will perfectly compliment the dress.”
“Do you sell the pieces?” Jake asks. “I’ve never been big on rentals.”
My breath catches because I’m almost positive something in the way his eyes linger on me says he’s not just talking about renting jewelry. But I know I’m being crazy. Jake doesn’t want kids. He doesn’t even want to settle down with a woman because hockey is his life. I’m a puzzle piece that will never fit into his puzzle, no matter how hard part of me might wish I would.
“Of course,” the woman says.
“Rentals are fine,” I say quickly.
Jake eyes me. “I’m happy to buy anything for my fiancée.”
I eye him right back. “And your fiancée is happy to wear rental jewelry. Really.” I put a hand on his forearm, trying to convince him I’m serious.
The corner of his full lips tick up. “I want the absolute best for my woman. It’s not a negotiation, Caroline.” Then he leans in and plants a casual kiss on my lips.
I want to keep arguing, but the kiss takes my breath away. All I manage is a quick nod, which the woman seems to take as permission to keep marching us through the building. “Shoes!” she says as if she’s suddenly forgotten what she must do many times a day. “We’ll need to get you the perfect shoes, too.”
I look over my shoulder at Jake, who was definitely just staring at my ass. He doesn’t even bother to look apologetic for it.
He sets up on a couch near a pedestal in front of a semi-circle of mirrors. Two older women approach with scissors, dangling strips of measuring tape, and serious expressions.