“I’m fine,” I mumble and try not to collapse under the weight of his stare.
“The dress!” Elsie gasps, her attention shifting to the dress like it’s the victim here. Her hands flutter like frantic little birds, patting every wrinkled inch of fabric. “Oh, thank goddess.” She presses her freckled hands to her chest. “I mean, burning hair is one thing, but adress? That’d be a whole other level of disaster.”
Her eyes widen, and her cheeks brighten with ablush. “Not that your hair’s a disaster! You look great! Really. Like…I’ve seen worse.Wayworse.”
I stare at her, trying to focus, but all I can feel is the heat radiating from Alder. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He watches me like a wolf eyeing prey. It’s a look that says he could pull me apart without lifting a finger, and I’d probably let him.
Elsie glances nervously over her shoulder at him before leaning in closer to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It was the candles, wasn’t it? I’ve been telling the manager we need fewer candles. But does anyone listen to the new girl?Nooooo.”
I blink, still processing, but she’s already moved on.
“I’m just glad you weren’t standing near the crystal display,” she continues, rushing to fill the silence. “Those things are practically weapons. Imagine impaling yourself right before the wedding.”
She gives a nervous laugh before sucking in a breath.
“Oh! The wedding!” She smooths the dress again even though, after a good steam, it’ll be perfectly fine. “I—I am sososorry. This isn’t your dress.”
My mind buzzes, but I can’t help the ghost of a smile that pulls at my lips. “That’s a relief.”
“My manager is looking foryourdress—the bridesmaid’s dress. That’s why this one is a bit…” She waves her hands toward my chest, where my boobs are currently waging war against this corset.
Alder’s gaze doesn’t waver. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say something—something I’m not ready for. But when he speaks, it’s not a taunt.
“It’s good to see you, Gemma.” His voice is low and smooth and rolls down my spine like melted wax. Justlike it used to.
And then, there it is. That smirk. Like he’s already forgotten every wrong thing he ever did.
But I haven’t.
I brace myself for the cutting remark, the passive aggressive dig. Something that will remind me why I left.
“You look—” He pauses, head tilting slightly, like he’s searching for the right word. His blue eyes catch on the tight corset, the mess of fabric, the fact that I am very clearly struggling.
I tense, waiting for the humiliation, the tease.
“Beautiful.”
The word lands in the pit of my stomach. “I—”
His gaze trails from my face, over the wrinkled, too-tight dress, the flushed skin of my collarbone, the singed ends of my ponytail.
With that same effortless confidence, he murmurs, “I think this might be my favorite look on you.”
It’s not sarcastic, not mocking. It’s soft, almost admiring.
But that’s the trap, isn’t it? Because Alder never just says things. Every word is placed like a chess move, every look is meant to pull me in, to make me second-guess myself, to make me feel like I was wrong for leaving.
My throat tightens.
He smiles. “Tell me, Gemma, did you set yourself on fire just for me?”
There’s the teasing edge. Just enough to disarm me, to make it feel like he’s being playful. Like this is normal and we aren’t standing in the middle of a bridal store sixmonths after I swore I’d never be with him again.
I swallow, my brain screaming at me to speak. But all I can hear is the way he saidbeautiful. Like he meant it. Like he’s never meant anything else more.
A door along the back wall swings open with a creak, and the energy shifts.
A woman glides in. She’s tall, draped in flowing black fabric speckled with silver moons, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders in loose waves, a few white strands glinting in the light. The scent of sage and something metallic, almost electric, trails behind her.
