“Do we all get forehead kisses, or is that a Sophia-exclusive perk?” Imogen teases, batting her lashes.
Edward goes still.
His spine straightens so fast it’s like someone replaced it with a steel rod.
He clears his throat and without another word, he walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room erupts into giggles.
My heart, meanwhile, is still attempting to remember how to function like a normal organ.
“I think we broke him,” Sophia says.
“All right, ladies, that’s us done for today,” the fitter announces with a brisk clap of her hands. “Sophia, are you happy with the jewelry?”
Sophia beams. “Absolutely.”
Thank fuck. Freedom at la—
“Fabulous. The headpieces should be in next week, so we’ll do that fitting in the next few weeks.”
Hold the fucking phone.
“We’re not done?” I blurt, eyes widening as all heads turn toward me.
Sophia blinks, her smile faltering. “No, we still need to try the headpieces with the dresses to make sure they work together.”
“Okay,” I say, carefully, trying to channel my innershopping channel presentercalm, “but hear me out. Can’t we just . . . do that over Zoom?”
Silence.
I press on, gesturing at our collectively pink-clad forms. “Like, we’re not getting our hair done, right? We’re just checking if the color of the headpieces matches the color of the dresses? And, if so, do we really need people—as in, us—to physically be there for that?”
At this rate, I’ll have spent more time in fittings than I have actually working.
“It’s part of the process,” she says slowly. “Is that . . . okay?”
“Of course!” I plaster on my smile again. “Totally fine. Just wanted to confirm.”
“You just tell us when,” Imogen simpers.
Lick-arse.
I storm off to “freshen up,” which is code forcalm the fuck down before I commit a crime. I head for the nearest kitchen. There are three in this house, and none of them are called a kitchen. We’ve got the butler’s pantry, the scullery, and whatever nonsense rich people invent to justify owning multiple kitchens.
Another trip from London to Oxfordshire to check if something sparkly matches something pink?
Really? What’s next? Afittingto ensure our chakras are aligned? Aséanceto make sure our ancestors approve of thecolor scheme?
God, I cannot wait for this wedding to be over.
Once the commotion dies down, I can slip back into my normal life, where theonlyCavendish I have to deal with is Sophia in her London townhouse. No more forced smiles, no more suffocating expectations, and—most importantly—no more Edward making me feel all . . . weird.
Muttering death threats under my breath, I stalk toward the scullery, round the corner, and—
Stop dead.
Because, ofcourse, Edward is there.
