I've changed four times. Four times. It's still wrong, everything is wrong, and I'm running out of time.
Dean will be here in twenty minutes, and I can't breathe.
The navy dress, a.k.a. THE dress. The one Dean complimented at his cousin's wedding. I was reaching for champagne, and he said, "That color's perfect on you."
Because I am, at the very core, just a woman, I've worn it to every event since, hoping he'd say it again, but he never has. Should I change? I should change. This is too obvious. He'll know. He'll know I wore it because of what he said, and then he'll know I've been pathetic about him for years and?—
Stop.
I yank the dress off the hanger. It's fine. The dress is fine. The dress is perfect. The dress shows too much. No, not enough. Except, yes, it's exactly right, but wearing it feels like screaming "I LOVE YOU" in navy silk. That's a problem because this is fake, and I need to remember that, and oh God, I can't do this.
My poor brain.
The ring catches some light as I zip the dress. His grandmother's ring. It's supposed to be for when he finds his forever, and I'm not his forever. I'm his best friend, playing pretend to save me from my sister's cruelty, and somehow that makes it worse.
Maybe I should just learn to deal with my sister better. Deal better with everyone in my life.
Ugh, how is this my life? It's as if the universe saw how in love I am with Dean and thought, "You know what, let's take it up a notch and turn him into a fake fiancé."
This is just one evening. One party. You can do this. Then, of course, there's the wedding day, the reception, and what else. You can do those, too.
Who am I kidding? I'm going to crack the second he touches me. I always do. I'm the worst liar on the planet, except when I'm with Dean. Then lying comes easy because we know each other's rhythms, we can finish each other's sentences, and we've been doing this dance for years.
But this isn't the same dance.
My phone pings.
Dean: On my way. 5 minutes.
Five minutes.
I look at myself in the mirror. The dress fits perfectly, wrapping at the waist. My hair finally cooperates, a perfect bob instead of going in every direction. Makeup looks natural. I look … good.
Do I look like someone who could be Dean Alexander's fiancée?
Yes.
Except I'm not, and I probably never will be.
The knock comes at 6:50 exactly.
I take a breath, open the door, and am probably about to die, with the way my lungs and heart stop working.
God, Dean cuts a gorgeous profile.
He's in the doorway, and my overactive brain cells malfunction. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows because he hates long sleeves. I stare at his forearms like they're new, like I haven't seen them a thousand times, except I've never let myself really look before, and now I can't stop looking. Those forearms should be illegal. They have no right looking as sexy as they do.
Dark hair dusting tanned skin, the shift of muscle and veins when he moves his hand to grip the doorframe, the watch on his left wrist?—
"Hey, Dean. Hi. Hello. Hola. Bonjour."
Something must have really shifted between us earlier at lunch because I've never felt this awkward and nervous around Dean. Never. And I'm plenty awkward.
His eyes sweep over me slowly, starting at my kitten heels, traveling up bare legs, lingering where the dress wraps across my waist, my chest, and finally reaching my face.
"You look beautiful."
I snort. "You're engaged to me. You're required to say that."
