“You know,” I say, fumbling with the zipper that’s already turning on me, “I had such high hopes for this one.”
“It’s only the first,” Nina says, patting my shoulder. “You’re allowed a few fashion casualties before the fairytale moment.”
“Right,” I sigh. “One down, twelve to go.”
“Atta girl.”
I slip into the next one, and my optimism takes a nosedive.
“I look like a sentient wedding cake,” I deadpan.
Nina snorts from her spot on the bed, sipping sparkling water like she’s a judge on a reality TV show. “You look like a veryexpensivewedding cake. But yeah, it’s giving pastry.”
“I hate it,” I mutter, trying not to trip over the crinoline as I turn. “Why is it so… poofy?”
“Because it’s couture,” Nina says, waving one perfectly manicured hand. “Couture thinks poof equals value.”
“Well, I feel like I’m about to be wheeled out on a dessert cart.”
I waddle—yes, waddle—back behind the folding screen and peel it off with Nina’s help. The next dress is tighter. Sexier. Plunging neckline. Backless. Slit up tothere.
“Okay, this one is for someone who isn’t terrified of a wardrobe malfunction,” I say, stepping out again.
Nina raises an eyebrow. “Wow. I mean… if you want to seduce your fake husband into ripping it off, this one’s your winner.”
I glare at her. “Not helping.”
I study myself in the mirror. The dress is objectively stunning. But it’s not me. Not the me who reads romance novels under a fuzzy blanket and works with glitter-sticky kids all day. I tug at the neckline and sigh.
“Next.”
We go through four more.
Too itchy. Too much beading. Toonaked. One looks like it belongs at the Met Gala, not a small ceremony. Another makes me look like a Victorian ghost with boundary issues.
By the time I wriggle out of dress number six and into number seven, I’m sweaty, over it, and mildly homicidal toward satin. This one’s strapless with a mermaid cut and a bodice that’s doing absolutely nothing for my boobs or my dignity.
“You look like a rejected Bachelor contestant,” Nina offers helpfully from her perch on the bed, sipping wine.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “I’ve always wanted to look like someone who gets dumped in episode two.”
I yank my hair up in a messy bun and stalk off toward the kitchen in full bridal regalia. I need water. Or wine. Or possibly an exorcism.
I’m still muttering about itchy tulle when I turn the corner—and come to a screeching halt.
Ash is standing in the kitchen, shirtless, nursing a bottle of Pellegrino, his eyes widening the second he sees me.
And he goes completely still.
I freeze too, caught mid-tulle-flick, feeling like I’ve just waltzed into some kind of bridal humiliation fantasy.
“I know,” I blurt, throwing my hands up. “I look like a frosted cupcake.”
Ash doesn’t answer.
He just stares at me like I’ve grown wings and started glowing.
“What?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though every inch of me is blushing. “Say something. Anything.”
