“Come here.”
I walk toward him, each step measured. When I reach him, he stands, moving around me in a slow circle. He stops behind me, close enough that I swear I can feel his body heat.
“Your hair.” Before I can respond, his fingers find my ponytail, gently pulling the elastic free.
I hold myself very still as his fingers run through my hair, arranging it over my shoulders. We’re reflected in the wall of mirrors—him behind me, much larger, his hands now resting on my shoulders.
“Beautiful.”
The word thrills me. In the past, I’ve usually associated male attention with fear or loathing. This is something far different. Something that makes me hyperaware of every point where his hands touch my shoulders, of how close his body is to mine, of the way my breathing has changed.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. The moment stretches between us, so charged I feel it in every nerve ending.
Marie returns with more options, and Cillian steps back. The loss of his warmth leaves me unsteady.
“We’ll take that one too,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “Keep bringing more.”
The wedding dress selection comes last. Marie brings several options—elaborate gowns with beading and lace, full skirts that remind me of fairy tales.
Each one feels wrong. Too much. Too pretentious. Too...not me. Cillian promised a small wedding. He said it would be just the two of us and our witnesses.
“Is there something simpler?” I ask.
Marie considers me. “I think I have just the thing.”
She returns with a dress that steals my breath—a simple slip dress in ivory silk. No beading, no lace, just clean lines and gorgeous fabric.
In the dressing room, I slide it on. It fits like it was made for me, skimming over my body without clinging. When I look in the mirror, I see someone I almost don’t recognize—someone who could stand beside Cillian O’Rourke and not feel completely out of place.
I step out of the dressing room.
Cillian stands immediately. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin flush.
“Is it okay?” I ask when the silence becomes too much.
“It’s perfect.” His voice is tight. “You’re perfect.”
I turn to look in the mirror, and for a moment, I can almost believe him.
When I try to change back, the zipper catches.
“Cillian?” I call after struggling for a minute.
“Yes?” His voice comes from just outside the dressing room.
“I’m stuck.”
A pause. “Can I come in?”
My pulse picks up speed. “Please do.”
The door opens. Cillian fills the small space, and I’m suddenly aware of how little fabric separates us.
“It’s caught,” I say, indicating the zipper.
He moves behind me, his fingers finding the stuck zipper. I can feel his breath on my neck as he works to free it.
“Hold still.”
