Fallon backs me up to the dressing room area. “On three.”
The videographer counts, and on cue, I emerge.
When I turn into the shop this time, Lake stares at me like he did the first time he saw me in my black strappy dress, with desire in his eyes. I walk across the store, the videographer following alongside me. It’s so weird that someone’s filming me, but I try to ignore her and act natural.
“Stunning,” Lake says when I reach him.
And I forget the cameras. “You like?”
“Love,” he says, as if he’s mesmerized.
I strike a pose. I hardly feel like I’m acting. Lake’s heated eyes journey up and down my dress, then he reaches for my hand. “I won’t be able to take my eyes off the maid of honor.”
“Good,” I say, then he looks to my mouth.
And I forget my line. I forget the script. I forget everything but what he said to me about messing up my makeup.
Neither of us says a word. I don’t know who makes the first move, but we collide. In mere seconds, he’s kissing me fiercely, passionately, hands roping in my hair, hungry mouth devouring mine. He’s relentless—determined, it seems, to destroy my makeup. As he kisses me, he dips me in the middle of the secondhand dress shop, his strong arm wrapped around me.
When the kiss ends, he tugs me back up, studies my lips, and smirks. “Sorry, Fresh Face.”
There’s no makeup that can withstand that kind of kiss.
23
IF YOU’RE READING THIS
REMY
After a few more takes, since of course Fresh Face doesn’t want to show the kind of kiss that can decimate lipstick, we finally get one that shows off the lipstick’s staying power even after a ten-second, knee-weakening kiss.
Fallon dismisses us, then leaves, the videographer dutifully following.
I change back into my clothes, then bring the black dress to the front of the shop, where the owner’s working at the counter. “You did a great job taking it in. It fits perfectly.”
“I have a brilliant seamstress. I’ll let her know,” she says, then pauses, her silvery gaze wise and curious as she glances from me to Lake, who’s a few feet away from me. “You two are quite cute.”
Lake turns toward her, then steps closer to me. “She is,” he says, answering her as he looks at me, only at me. For a few breath-held seconds, it’s as if the world spins away.
I blink, trying to come out of the haze as I tear my attention from him. “Heispretty cute.”
Lake snarls. “I’m not cute.”
I tap my chin, considering. “Handsome? Hot? Smoking? Strapping? Studly?”
“All of the above,” Lake answers.
The shop owner laughs, then her laughter fades as she gestures to the two of us. “This is nice to see. He’s a much better choice than your ex.”
My cheeks burn for a few seconds, but for some reason I don’t feel so embarrassed anymore by the Jumbotron incident, and how far and wide it’s spread. I’m not sure if it’s because of Lake or this woman, and the genuine sparkle in her eyes. She seems to really mean it. Like she’s the kind of human who legitimately roots for redemption after a public heartbreak story.
Like mine.
Lake wraps an arm around my shoulders, then meets her eyes. “Couldn’t agree more. Been wanting to see this myself for a long time too.”
There he goes again. The man is seriously committed to this origin story of the long-standing crush. It gives me butterflies.
The shop owner arches a curious brow, then nods toward the back of the shop. “Give me a few minutes to hang it in a garment bag so you can take it home.”
