I sigh as the sales assistant pops champagne, handing out tall flutes to the gathering.
“What did Pete say?”
“He’s agreed with her for the moment. But I expect she’ll change her mind when they start working on the guestlist tonight.”
“What do you think, Molly?” Bess interrupts. She holds an ivory gown against her body. Her red hair, worn down and softly curled, falls against the sleeve. “Will Pete like it?”
I study the dress, then nod. “I think he’ll love anything you wear. But the ivory looks wonderful against your skin tone.”
She makes a noise in the back of her throat, her lips pinching together. “Not the color. The cut!”
“Oh.” I frown. “I thought you wanted a big dress.”
She sighs, turning back to the mirror. “It’s a country wedding. I want lace and silk, something sleek.” Bess hands the dress off to the hovering sales assistant. “I’ll try this one and the other two in this style.”
The assistant nods and moves to hang the gown in a dressing room.
If Bess wants a country wedding, then that’s what she’ll get. But that doesn’t mean she has to compromise. I know her deepest desires—and figure-hugging lace isn’t on the cards.
I rise from the couch, determined to put my maid of honor and best friend foot down. “I think you should try the ball gown. At least be sure you don’t want it.” I pull the one I admired earlier from the rack and move to her side, holding it in front of her. “I like this one.”
Her lips ease from their pucker, and her eyes trace the sweetheart neckline down the intricately embroidered bodice to the yards of tiered ruffles decorated with glittering diamantes. She jerks her head toward the dressing room. “Oh, go on then.”
I hide a smile, moving to hang it in the room. Bess and the assistant disappear, the door shutting behind them.
I make my way around the room, engaging in small talk with the chatty bridesmaids. I know most from school, college, or various charity events. The majority are married socialites living off their trust funds or partners. Only Candy Jenkins and I work.
Dr. Candy Jenkins is a bombshell of a woman—smart and gorgeous. She’s related to Bess through a second cousin, or so I’ve been told. Either way, we know each other somewhat, and I find her a fascinating contradiction.
She owns her own veterinary practice in Hudley Valley, just outside of Chars, and treats everything from cows to goldfish. She has a playful name but a no-nonsense attitude. She’s direct, blunt to the point of almost rudeness, and yet compassionate and kind.
I’m simultaneously crushing on her and overtly intimidated.
“Dr. Jenkins,” I greet, tipping my glass toward her. “Nice to see you again.”
“Is it?” she asks, seeming surprised by my comment. She shuffles, looking uncomfortable in the swarm of women. “I have an afternoon appointment.” She reaches for my champagne, divesting me of the glass and immediately chugging it down.
I grin. “But not one you have to be sober for?”
She shudders, her nose wrinkling at the taste. “I despise bubbles. And no. Not this appointment. Drunk or at least tipsy would be preferable, actually.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask further questions, but she ploughs forward, changing the subject to ask me about my latest charity effort.
We chat about her work and my charity efforts as we wait for Bess. She promises to speak to her father about a donation, and we both agree that the latest effort to revampThe X-Filesmeets our viewing expectations. Our conversation is regularly interrupted with Bess’s catwalk stylings.
“No,” we call in unison, squeezed onto the lounge beside Josh.
“You look like a sausage,” Candy states in what I assume is her version of helpful advice.
“But a very pretty sausage!” I yell, shooting Bess two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
As the afternoon drags on, Josh entertains Candy and me with stories of the sordid underbelly of Hollywood.
“I don’t want to say who it was, but a very well-known actress then decided to do a nude run through?—”
A sound that can only be described as a dying squirrel cuts Josh off mid-sentence.
All heads swing toward the dressing room door.
