I needed a shower. I headed to the linen closet in the hallway for a fresh towel and paused when I spotted an old storage container on the top shelf. It looked like it had scraps of fabric in it. Pulling it down from its shelf, I unclasped the clips and opened it to a waft of nostalgic scent—fabric that had been shut away for a long time.
A sharp inhale slid past my lips. I touched the old pieces of fabric—some of them barely the size of a coaster, some ofthem yards of untouched fabric—and felt the stirrings of inspiration.
It felt like the tingling of a limb that had been asleep. A little painful, but an intense relief; I hadn’t lost my will tomake.
I touched the cotton fabrics, the jersey, and the stiff canvas. I emptied the container and laid it all out, gasping when I found a bolt of pristine pink silk at the bottom.
My thoughts jumped to Lola. This was her homecoming dress. I let out a startled laugh, unfurling the fabric to see how it draped. Gorgeous. I folded it up again and went treasure hunting in the box of scraps.
That was how Gideon found me: kneeling on the floor in the hallway, surrounded by a multitude of fabrics. He wore dark jeans and a black, long-sleeve T-shirt. I’d never seen him in anything but long sleeves, even when the days were sweltering. He looked great. I, on the other hand, was filthy from my cleaning spree, sweat and grime soaked into the fabric of my T-shirt and decade-old sweatshorts. At some point over the course of my manic scrubbing, I’d forgotten about the awkwardness of my situation and the grief of never having a real marriage. And now, when I looked up to see him dark and brooding at the end of the hall, beautiful and mysterious and familiar, I couldn’t help the smile that stretched over my lips when he stopped short and met my gaze.
“Can I use this?” I asked, lifting the pink silk. “Lola wanted me to make her a homecoming dress.”
Gideon opened his mouth. Frowned. Closed it. Finally, a big shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “Don’t see why not.”
I smiled, and he simply stared at me. Tension teased at the threads binding us together, reminding me that this was myhusband—in name, if not in truth. Before my mind could drag me into eddies of desire, I dropped my gaze to the piles of fabric around me.
In this town, I was waking up to life again. I was sketching. Dreaming. And now, I wanted to create. I felt like myself again. The woman who existed before Henry. Before my business failure. Before I forgot that actually, I loved designing wedding dresses.
I would never have a real marriage or true love, but wasn’t that a fair price to fall in love with myself again?
“It’s been a long time since I felt inspired to make something,” I admitted.
The floor creaked as Gideon shifted. He took a step forward, crouching down to pick up a square of navy fabric covered in planets and spaceships. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and said, “I thought you made wedding dresses for a living.”
“I do. I did,” I corrected myself; my business was as good as dead. Wasn’t that why I was here? Throat tight, I stroked the pink silk and let my lips curl into a bitter smile. “When I was little, I would go with my parents to the weddings they were working.” I glanced up and explained, “They’re wedding singers.”
Gideon watched me, that little piece of fabric still clasped in his hand. He nodded.
Wanting to do something with my hands, I started folding up all the dozens of pieces of fabric and putting them back in the storage bin. “My mom and dad tell the story of their own meet-cute at every wedding,” I added, arching a brow. “It was abeach in Costa Rica. A coconut fell on my dad’s head, and my mom found him passed out on the beach with a big lump on his temple. She nursed him back to health, and the rest is history.”
Gideon snorted. “For real?”
“So the story goes,” I said, laughing. “I’ve seen a picture of my dad with a bandage on his head with my mom by his side.”
He laughed, and the sound warmed me down to my toes. I couldn’t resist my answering smile.
“My sister is a florist and my brother is a videographer,” I continued. “I’m the youngest, and I always felt such pressure to follow in all their footsteps. And it made sense; my parents had tons of connections. The wedding industry is huge. We could get a head start if we carved out our own niches.” I folded another piece of fabric, and then I said, “Ididenjoy it before. The dresses, the look on the bride’s face, the sheerdramaof it all.”
Gideon watched me. “But?”
“But then…” I flushed, embarrassed. “Then I went through breakup after breakup. In my family, if you aren’t married, you’re nothing. And with all our livelihoods tied to weddings, I started to feel like a fraud.” I couldn’t meet his eyes. I stared at the clear plastic container of fabric, suddenly nauseous. “Ilovedseeing the bride make her entrance. The dresses—God, they used to give me shivers every time. And for a long time, when I was hustling to build my brand, that spark was still there. I loved seeing a bride’s face light up when she came in to choose her dress. I loved the look on her face at the final fitting, when she could imagine herself walking down the aisle. But…”
“The joy went out of it at some point.”
I grimaced, nodding. “Yes. Designs that I was proud of wouldn’t move off the shelves, so I started following trends. My overheads grew as the business grew, and then I was stuck designing dresses that I didn’t love but knew would sell.”
“And now?”
I leaned back on my heels, laying a piece of chambray on my lap. Gideon sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He had one knee bent with his arm propped against it. The cottage was silent except for a soft creak with a gust of wind. It smelled like lemon cleaning products and old fabric.
I smiled at him. “Now, for the first time in about four years—maybe longer—I feel excited to make a dress.”
He was silent for long moments, and our gazes remained stuck to each other. I knew I should’ve looked away—nothing good would come of me feeling this kind of connection—but I couldn’t help myself. I felt like Gideon understood me. Saw me. Knew me.
He turned back to the scrap of fabric in his grasp. Something crossed his expression—a flash of pain.
Suddenly, I remembered this cottage had belonged to his father. And I hadn’t met his father at the wedding or at Sunday lunch. Which meant…
