The seamstress adjusts the hem, pins between her lips, and I turn slowly, watching the way the dress moves with me.
“Frost is going to lose his mind,” Amy adds.
“That's the plan,” I say, grinning.
Mom dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “I can't believe my baby is getting married.”
“In nine days,” I remind her, and the reality of it hits me all over again. Nine days until I'm Mrs. Deacon Stone. Nine days until I marry the man who makes me feel like I can take on the world.
The seamstress finishes the final adjustments and steps back. “Perfect fit. You're all set.”
I change back into my jeans and sweater, and head to the front counter with my mom and Amy in tow. The shop is insanely busy today. Women are oohing and aahing over dress choices as stylists rush to check out other customers. After what seems like an eternity, we leave the boutique with my dress carefully packaged in a garment bag. There’s a slight chill in the air that hits us the second we step outside, but I barely notice. I'm floating.
We end up at a little Italian place a few blocks away, tucked into a booth with red vinyl seats and checkered tablecloths. Mom orders wine, Amy orders a beer, and I get a lemonade because I want to remember every second of this week.
“So,” Mom says, once we've ordered. “The rehearsal dinner. We need to get everything finalized and over to the caterer.”
I pull out my phone and open my notes. “Okay. We've got forty-three people confirmed. Frost's family, my family, the wedding party, and a few close friends from the club.”
“Menu?” Amy asks, stealing a breadstick from the basket.
“We're doing family-style service,” I say. “Short ribs and salmon as the main entrees, roasted vegetables, garlic mashed potatoes, and Caesar salad to start.”
Mom nods approvingly. “Dessert?”
“Tiramisu and cannolis per Frost's request.”
Amy grins. “Man knows what he wants.”
“He does,” I agree, and I can't help but smile thinking about him, about the way he looks at me, and the life we're building together.
Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. And I'm so happy you found each other.”
“Me too, Mom.”
Amy raises her beer. “To Hope and Frost. Hopefully I don’t have to bash any more kneecaps this week.”
I laugh and clink my lemonade against her bottle. “Let's hope not.”
By the time we pull into the clubhouse parking lot, the sun's starting to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in that golden glow. Amy parks her car, and I carefully lift the garment bag from the back seat, cradling it like it's made of glass.
“Easy there,” Amy says. “It's not gonna spontaneously combust.”
“It might if Frost gets his hands on it,” I joke.
Mom laughs. “He's going to want to see it.”
“I know. Unfortunately for him, he's not going to.”
We're barely through the door when I hear his voice.
“There she is.” Frost's grin is wide as he crosses the common room toward me, his eyes dropping immediately to the garment bag. “That it?”
“Nope,” I say, holding it away from him. “Nothing to see here.”
“Come on, darlin’. Can’t I have a quick peek?”
“Not happening.”
