My cheeks warm, a genuine smile tickles the corner of my lips. “It’s not too tight, then?” I ask, smoothing my hands down my stomach. “So I don’t look suffocated?”
He raises a brow. “Can you breathe?”
I nod. “Easily.”
“Are you comfortable?” He grins, his tone taking on a teasing cadence as he adds, “Comfortable is the new sexy.”
My smile is bright now. “Yes.”
“Do you feel confident?”
“Yes.”
He sighs, eyeing me. “Then it’s perfect.”
I bite my lower lip, gnawing on the happy curve, but remember why I’m out here. Though I feel so much better already. I gather my courage, and say, “Could you call someone for me? Someone not on my approved list?”
His brows furrow. “Who?”
“My, ah, my foster mother.”
His hesitation is clear. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” I answer, nodding to hide thenoin my eyes. “Her number is 089-958-7632. I lived with her for years… That’s it unless it has changed… Maybe she changed it.”
His knowing gaze rolls over me, contemplating, then he says, “I’ll try the number.” He smiles dutifully, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, then pulls his phone from his pocket and walks away, pressing the handset to his ear.
Instinctively, I want to bunch the dress into my hand so I can walk without treading on it, but I don’t. I just slide my feet instead of lifting them. On the wedding day, I’ll be in heels—pretty white and silver ones with butterfly diamonds on the straps. They are custom.
And all Fawn.
Not church-like or adult.
A hint of boho for my mum.
Back in the dressing room, turning to the mirror again, I try to remember how I felt just outside. Confident. Comfortable.Full of air.
The lights overhead pick up all the colours in the dress. It isn’t a flat white; it’s ivory and eggshellandwhite. I do love it. I really do. I feel a flutter of hope. Maybe this is the first step towards healing the rift between Eleanor and me.
As I wait, I can’t help but imagine her reaction—her eyes lighting up at the thought of my wedding, her voice filled with warmth and excitement. I close myeyes, envisioning her. I feel maybe we can be a family. After all these years. Maybe I’ll have someone on my side of the cathedral? The bride's side will be small—a single lady—maybe with tears in her eyes and newfound pride on her face. Pathetic hope balloons my chest. If I only have one person who says, ‘I’m on the bride’s side’, just one, I think my heart will explode.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
clay
Bolton: The foster mother is on her way, Boss.
I gripthe phone tightly in my fist as my driver rolls through the streets of downtown Connolly, cutting a sharper course than usual. Horns honk. Pedestrians jog to avoid collisions. It is a busy day in the city.
I don’t like this.
This situation unsettles me.
When Bolton reported the foster mother's card, noting my little deer "showed sentimentality" upon receiving it, I checked the footage. My sweet girl has always been soft-hearted.
I don’t want that to change.
The surveillance feed showed her face fall as she read that woman's words. Bolton said something, and she nodded, but her eyes remained distant.
