For her dress to fall inch by soft inch as she moves her hand.
For it to pool on the floor.
For her to take my hand as her help to step from it and then bring her into my arms.
She is a knockout. A deadly dame from a film noir. I’d known today was going to be hard, but I just didn’t think it was going to be like this.
The tight in the pants kind of hard.
And then she kills me—dead—when she says,
‘Don’t read too much into this, but could you zip me up?’
8
Heather
Mortifying.Embarrassing. Undignified. Of all the things I wanted to appear, once I’d pulled myself together in the bathroom, none of these were it. Yet I am all of these things.
Mortified to have to ask him—why didn’t I think of the zipper when I chose this dress?
Embarrassed that I’d had to escape to the confines of the bathroom in the first place to compose myself.
Undignified is the way I feel as I stand before him, my hand the only thing keeping my dress in place. But at least I have my favourite shoes on; red and black Valentino heels with a gorgeous peep-toe that I picked up for a steal in a charity shop in Primrose Hill.
And Archer is responsible for all of this as he stands on the other side of the room, the size of which only makes him seem larger. Darker. More. There’s something just too good to be true about him, I think, as he stares back at me unspeaking, one hand slipped into the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe it’s the slant of his cheekbones or how the light behind him turns his dark hair to an inky black. A sharp-looking suit hangs against the wardrobe, which means he hasn’t turned up to this wedding wearing jeans to spite me. Not that there’s anything wrong with Archer Powell wearing just jeans. In fact, it’s something I think I might like to see...
I didnotjust entertain that thought.
Or imagine his tanned, toned magnificence wearing nothing but a knowing smile and a pair of low-slung jeans.
‘Are you just going to stand there with that smug look on your face, or are you going to help me?’ My words are like machine-gunned deceits as I realise I’m probably gawking very obviously at half of my daydream. My chest feels tight with such choking foolishness and I hate that nothing seems to ruffle him. I should’ve known that even this would’ve turned into a battle or a game of one-upmanship.
‘You’re saying you need me?’
Need is a little strong, possibly. Want, definitely. Also, inexplicably.
But these are all impulses that can be controlled.
‘As much as it pains me to ask, yes. I need you to fasten my dress. Because, strangely enough, I don’t have the arm span of an octopus.’
‘You only had to ask,’ he murmurs, sauntering across the room in that way he has.All confidence and ease.
‘I thought I had asked,’ I grumble in an undertone, ducking my gaze as he approaches. Then he’s behind me, his fingers light at the nape of my neck as a fission of something unfamiliar shimmers across my skin.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just enjoying the moment.’
Does he mean he’s enjoying my discomfort, my request, or does he mean...
‘Your skin is the colour of cream,’ he muses.
I let out a breath, relieved almost. I’d been expecting some criticism or jibe, not compliments or gentleness.
‘Goes with the ginger hair.’ I shiver again as my hair tickles my spine.
‘Why are redheads always clumped together as ginger?’ he asks as a rasp of metal on metal sounds in the quiet room, the fabric beginning to hug my body. ‘Your hair is so much more than one colour. It’s red and amber and copper, but you’ve also got a lot of sunshine in these strands.’
