Oh, sure, she’s got the big things covered—dresses, shoes, bouquets—but it’s thelittle thingsthat get you. Things like peak-hour train tickets, overpriced station coffees, and explaining to my bossyet againwhy I needanotherday off to confirm that a dress that fit last weekstill fits this week.
Sophia only works at her charity three days a week. She’s got time to spare. Meanwhile, I’m trying to convince Simon that “urgent bridesmaid duties” is a valid excuse for missing the big pressure-washer demonstration.
Spoiler: Simon does not think this is a valid excuse.
Lizzie agrees this is madness. At her cousin’s wedding, the bridesmaids wore ASOS dresses. One fitting. In a living room. Fueled by Prosecco. Zip, zip,done.
I dump my coat in the outhouse, resisting the urge to slam the door.
On the rage-marinated march back to the drawing room, every step is a battle not to scream the one thought pulsing through my brain:THE DRESSES ALREADY FUCKING FIT.
We are not starring inBridesmaids: The Musical.
I shove the door open, slapping on my bestoh-my-god-I-love-being-heresmile.
In a blur of pastel chiffon, I wriggle into the dress at world-record speed.
And—shockingly—I look exactly the same as in the last fitting.
The confusion tumbles out before I can stop it. “So . . . what’s this fitting for?”
“Thejewelry!” Imogen chirps.
The fitter swoops in, draping us in necklaces, bracelets, and rings like she’s decorating a Christmas tree.
“Oh, this one catches the light perfectly,” Sophia murmurs, tilting her head to admire the necklace she’s just placed on Bernice.
Meanwhile, every muscle in my ass is clenched in barely-contained rage. Surely—surely—this jewelry circus could have been tacked onto thelastfitting? Or aWhatsApp photo exchange?
There’s a knock at the door.
Sophia spins around, eyes wide with suspicion. “Who is it? We’re doing bridesmaid fittings. Only certain people are allowed in.”
A pause.
Then, a low, deadpan reply: “It’s Edward.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Sophia’s tone does a complete 180. “Oh, okay. You can come in, but only if you promise not to tell Giles anything you see.”
The door creaks open.
And in walks Edward Cavendish.
Those deep blue eyes rake over everything, cutting through the pastel haze.
They land on me, lingering just long enough for me to feel the weight of his judgment as he does a quick up-and-down.
Naturally, he frowns.
Probably thinks this is too ladylike for me. Probably thinks I should be in fishnets and stripper heels, carrying a pint instead of a bouquet.
Heat creeps up my neck. My pulse thunders. There are too many secrets between us now. If the girlsknew—if they evensuspected—
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He adjusts his cuffs. “You all look . . . beautiful.”
“Hi,” we all chorus back.
