“You don’t have to help,” I said as he poured the champagne out.
He set the bottle down and picked up the tray. “Hey, I’m not totally an asshole.” There was that smile again, promising things I did not have the bandwidth to think about.
“I can’t wait to see my little girl all dressed up!” Evan’s father declared, taking the offered glass of champagne. Evan shot him a dirty look.
“I thought the father of the bride wasn’t supposed to be at the dress fitting.”
“Just not the fiancé,” his stepmother said. Imogen accepted a glass from Evan and took a small sip.
“First thing she’s had to eat all day,” Mika whispered to me. She had a paint swatch color chart and a bag full of lights with her.
“Are we doing a photoshoot?” I asked.
Mika sighed and downed her glass of champagne.
“Imogen is worried about the dress color. Someone strangle me with a satin bow, please.”
Brea also looked nervous as Imogen followed us back to the dressing room.
“I’ve done some natural sun bleaching methods to whiten the lace a bit more,” she chattered as we helped Imogen into the dress.
Brea had really outdone herself. The dress was an ethereal lacy ball gown, with layers and layers of sheer lace accented by handmade lace applique flowers and tiny crystals on the gauzy skirts. The bodice had off-the-shoulder sleeves and small, delicate flowers and crystals sewn on it that cascaded down the bodice to the waist of the dress. It was a true fairy princess dress, and part of me was slightly envious as Imogen fed her arms through the sleeves.
“You look stunning,” I told Imogen as I laced up the back of the bodice. The dress fit her like a glove.
“You look like a supermodel,” Brea agreed, fluffing out the bottom of the dress. I pinned the bride’s hair up on top of her head.
“We’ll put the veil on once you’ve fully seen the dress,” Brea continued anxiously.
Imogen hadn’t said a word, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t even inclined her head. “I need to see it in the daylight,” she finally remarked.
Brea held her breath as we walked Imogen out to the display area with the three-sided mirror and her family all seated on a curved pink couch. Mika and her stepmother applauded and whistled as Imogen stepped up on the podium and Brea spread out the train. Imogen frowned as she studied herself in the mirror; Brea nervously twisted her hands.
“Don’t make that face,” Imogen’s mother admonished her daughter. “You don’t want wrinkles.”
“What color is this dress?”
“You chose a delicate off-white,” Brea reminded her.
“Yes,” I added, “you didn’t want a full white dress because it would look cheap.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want people to think that,” Evan said dryly.
Forget my earlier sexual feelings for him—if he derailed this wedding appointment, I was going to lose it.
“Mika!” Imogen snapped her fingers, and her half sister hurried up with the paint chips. Imogen looked down as Mika held up the swatch of whites against the skirt of the dress.
“This is the color I wanted,” Imogen said, tapping a cream white.
“Yes, that’s the color of the dress,” Brea said.
“No, it isn’t.” Imogen turned on Brea.
Brea hurried to a white box on a nearby table and came back with fabric swatches. “These are the ones you requested and signed off on, and these are all the emails where you confirmed that you actually wanted it a shade lighter.”
“Well, now this dress is too light.”
Brea’s hands clenched. I sympathized; I, too, wanted to pull out my hair.
