“I figure if I’m stuck here for a few days anyway, why not make myself useful? I may need to borrow more money though,” I say. “For a dress.”
“That one’s nice,” he says, nodding toward the white dress I’m wearing. It’s clear by the flicker of interest in his eyes, and how his gaze lingers for a moment at the place where the dress dips slightly at the neckline, that he approves.
“I can’t wear this to a wedding.”
“Why not?”
“It’s white. And not dressy enough. If I’m going to be your ‘date,’ don’t you want me to fit in?”
“I don’t really mind what you wear, but I’m happy to buy you a dress,” he says. “No faux pas for you.”
The way he says it is gentle. Not show-offy. Not like Jack, who liked to be recognized for his generosity.
“I’m buying my own dress,” I say. “But we don’t have to figure that out now.” I lift my glass. “A toast. To weddings.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Surprised to hear you say that.”
“I have nothing against weddings. In theory. Just the one I was involved in.”
“I can’t promise you this will be much better.”
We clink glasses and seal the deal. I’m going to be Ryan’s fake date to his ex’s wedding, only days after my own was supposed to happen.
It should feel like a terrible idea.
Instead, I can’t wait.
Chapter 6
RYAN
What have I done?
I take a sip of my beer, then put the drink down on the bar. I’m usually no lightweight, but a quarter of a beer in and I’m making foolish decisions.
Sloane decides to return to the clothing store, and when I meet her there at the bottom of the seventh, she’s already picked out a dress, a purse, and shoes, and they’re wrapped in tissue in a bag at the counter.
“What, I don’t even get to see my date’s dress?” I ask, tapping my card to the reader that the shopkeeper passes me.
“You don’t like surprises?” Sloane asks.
I like pretty much anything involving her at this point, which is likely why I’ve gone mad and agreed to this ruse. “Not usually,” I say.
“Me neither,” she says.
Funny. If Sloane is what surprises look like, maybe I’ve been giving them a bad reputation.
***
The next two days pass by quickly. It’s busy at work, and each night when I get home, Sloane has dinner made, and we walkwith Marshall along the beach before eating together, and then playing a game of cards or watching something on TV.
I bring home a small watercolor kit from the rescue center that’s used for one of the educational programs, and when I give it to Sloane, the look on her face makes me wonder why I ever thought I preferred being alone.
I’ve overheard her talk to her friend twice on the phone in hushed tones—Kerry-Anne, her name is. On one of our walks, Sloane told be about how they met, how long they’d been friends, and how much she relied on her. Sloane’s been doing a lot of reassuring, and it’s clear her friend is worried about her.
“Can I feed Vera tonight?” Sloane asks me after we’ve cleared the dinner dishes.
“Sure,” I say. I grab the fresh herring from the fridge and pass the container to her.
