“Mm-hmm,” she says casually, while dabbing something sparkly near my brow bone. “He also told me you hate looking too ‘done’ and that your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and to make sure we don’t hide that.”
Oh.
I blink again, but this time it’s not because of the bright light or the makeup brush hovering near my lashes. It’s because there’s a lump forming in my throat.
I sit quietly for a while, letting them curl and fluff and paint me into a new version of myself—one with glowing skin and glossy lips and hair that looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial. I feel like Cinderella, if Cinderella also had mild social anxiety and a hot fake fiancé with a publicist.
Someone hands me a mimosa. “Sip,” she says. “It’s for the nerves. And the cheeks.”
I sip.
And then it’s time to put on the dress.
The team parts like the Red Sea when a stylist named Jules walks in holding the garment bag like it’s the crown jewels.
Inside is a gown that makes my jaw go slack. It’s midnight blue, with delicate beading across the bodice and an off-the-shoulder neckline that dips just enough to be sexy without scandalizing the parents at my school. The skirt flares just slightly, hugging the hips before flowing to the floor in soft, liquid fabric.
It’s romantic. Elegant. Slightly daring.
And when I step into it and turn to the mirror, I swear I don’t recognize myself.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
Behind me, Ash’s voice rumbles low and warm. “Yeah. That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
I spin around. He’s leaning in the doorway, freshly showered, in a tailored black suit that makes him look like sex in formalwear.
“You look—” he pauses, eyes sweeping over me “—like every woman on that carpet’s about to be jealous of me.”
I swallow. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He crosses the room slowly and holds out his arm. 'Ready to go blow some minds, future Mrs. Ryder?'
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm, my fingers trembling just slightly, and he leads me to the limo waiting outside.
Inside, it smells like leather, roses… and impending doom.
Okay, maybe not doom—but definitely nerves. And all of them? Mine.
Ash slides in beside me, maddeningly calm. His hand rests casually on his thigh—until he notices the death grip I’ve got on the clutch in my lap.
'Breathe, Hart,' he says gently, sliding his hand over mine.
I try.
Sort of.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I whisper.
He chuckles, the deep, low kind that does absolutely nothing to calm my heart rate. “Please don’t. That dress is too pretty for dry cleaning.”
I shoot him a look, but my lips twitch anyway. “I’m serious, Ash. What if I trip? Or say something weird? Or freeze up like a malfunctioning Barbie?”
He squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s blind optimism.”
“Okay, fine.” He shifts toward me, suddenly all business. “Here’s the plan: When we get out, I’ll help you. We’ll walk slowly. Smile, but not like a terrified hostage. When they yell our names, just look toward the cameras. Notatthem, like you're challenging them to a duel. More like… soft eye contact. Romance-novel cover stuff.”
