I walk through my front door, close it, and then lean my back against the wood in the dark hallway.
Oh, shit!
My skin is flushed, and the apex between my thighs pulses from a kiss where he barely touched me. That’s the part I can’t get over. He didn’t need to do much, and I almost came in my shorts.
I nibble on my lower lip in the dark, trying to force my breathing back into something normal. Then my hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the elastic of my shorts. My fingers slide through slick heat, and a moan rips out of me. I’m soaked. Two fingers pressing hard circles over my clit, I rub myself, closing my eyes.
The memory of his mouth rushes back so sharply I grind against my own hand, fast, desperate, chasing the scrape of his teeth on my lip, the raw edge of his voice when he said my name, the flex of his arms braced on either side of my head while he kissed me senseless and gave me nothing but his mouth. My back arches off the wall. My thighs clench. I slip two fingers inside myself and curl them, and the orgasm tears through me sohard my knees buckle, his name spilling from my lips in a broken gasp as I collapse against the wall, trembling, pulsing, wrecked.
Brody isn’t supposed to matter. He’s not meant to get under my skin this fast or make me feel this desperate.
And that’s what scares me most.
Not the wedding. Not Louis. Not even the lie.
Brody.
7
CLAIRE
Bet you’ll look cute tonight, doll. Try not to think about me too much when you see me again.
I read Louis’s text once more, feeling sick to my stomach. That arrogant asshole.
Instantly, I go to block his number. My thumb hovers for half a second, then taps Confirm, and his name vanishes from my messages. Gone. I should have done it the morning he walked out, but I kept his number the way you keep a bruise, pressing it occasionally to check if it still hurts.
It does, but less than it did.
My reflection stares back from the bathroom mirror. Hair done, blonde waves pinned back on one side with three tiny diamanté clips. Makeup soft, highlighter on my cheekbones that the YouTube tutorial promised would make me look luminous.
The dress is over on the bed. Bronze satin. Floor length. A ruched deep V-neck held up by thin tapered straps that trace over my shoulders and dip into a low V at the back. It has a wide-banded midriff that cinches at my waist, and the skirt falls in a full A-line, satin pooling and swirling with a high slit up the right leg. The first time I tried it on, the fabric rippled around me,appearing regal. I bought it thinking I’d wear it next to Louis, but the dress is too gorgeous to waste on regret.
Besides, I’m going with Brody. Since that kiss two days ago, I’ve been replaying the pressure of his mouth every time I close my eyes. Tonight we might share another, and I may get close enough to really drown in that scent that calms me unlike anything else I’ve tried.
My phone pings again, and I glance down at the screen to find it’s my sister, Ivy.
We’re here already! Got the good seats. How far away are you? Oh, and Louis just arrived. He looks good tbh.
My stomach cramps. I type back,Be there soon, and set the phone face down.
Contacts. If I’m doing this, I’m going all in. No glasses. The full perfect picture of me.
I lean over the counter, pop open the small case, and pinch out the first lens. Right eye. Blink. It stings, sharp and watery. I hold my eyelid open and wait. Left eye. Same sting, same flooding. I blink rapidly, gripping the counter edge. These are the new ones from Dr. Bodle’s office, picked up this morning. But my bathroom has gone soft at the edges, the details of my face blurring, and when I glance out the window, Brody’s house is an impressionist painting.
I grab the rewetting drops. Two in each eye. Better. Enough to walk without hitting furniture but not enough to read a menu or identify features from any real distance.
Movement outside. Through the haze, a figure in Brody’s backyard. Tall and broad, pushing a lawn mower in steady rows. Shorts. Boots. A tank top stretched across muscular shoulders.
What’s he doing?
He said he had a meeting out of town and that he’d meet me at the venue. But there he is, doing yard work, and the ceremony is in just over an hour.
My chest squeezes, and my hands start to tremble because what if he changed his mind? I press them flat against the counter and breathe, four in, hold, four out, but the rhythm doesn’t stick because the spiral is already spinning.
He must have come home early and completely forgotten about the wedding. Or he’s going to bail. I’m going to show up alone, and Louis will give me that smile, and my family is going to tell me I didn’t work hard enough to keep him, and I’m going to stand there in this beautiful bronze dress by myself and?—
Stop. Breathe. Handle it.
