He tilts his head slightly.‘You talk a lot of shit for someone who nearly face-planted at my feet yesterday.’
I shrug.‘I’ve decided to rebrand that as a power move.’
‘You’re unwell.’
‘And yet you’re still here.’
He doesn’t answer right away.His eyes flick down to my mouth –
quick, but not quick enough.Then he looks away, shrugs as if it didn’t happen.‘Maybe I’m getting used to the noise.’
Oh.
There it is.The crack in the armour.The space between what he says and what he means.
My ego stretches like a cat in the sun.
That’s the opening.Every guy has one – some fall for girls who quoteStar Wars, some can’t resist a damsel in distress.And Luke?Luke enjoys the fight.
I’ve got him.Hook, line and sinker.Now I just have to reel him in.
‘Luke!’
We both jump as though we’ve been caught stealing.
Ella appears in the doorway and her eyes narrow when she clocks me beside Luke.‘You’re supposed to be with Darcy, not hiding in the pantry with – Jamie?’
The pause before my name shouldn’t sting.But it does.
Luke lifts his hands in mock surrender, grabs his mug from the coffee machine, and backs away.‘On my way,’ he says, throwing me one last glance.‘See you later, B1.’
And then he walks away, all relaxed limbs and unbothered masculinity.
Ella turns to me with a raised brow.‘You don’t want him.’
‘Why?’I ask.‘Is he a secret Andrew Tate disciple?’
‘Worse,’ she says with a grimace.‘He’s never seenLove Actually.’
I freeze, horrified.‘I knew there was something wrong with him.’
She smiles and grabs my arm.‘Come on.The make-up artist is ready for you.’
Ella plants me in front of a woman with lumberjack forearms and the precision of a surgeon.She doesn’t speak, just lifts a curling wand like it’s an extension of her will, while another woman dabs at my under-eye circles with the quiet determination of someone fixing a problem, not judging it.By the time they’re both done, I’m transformed into someone who looks like they drink cucumber water and own a Dyson Airwrap.
Once deemed sufficiently radiant, I’m left in a silk robe, nursing a mimosa that tastes more like battery acid with citrus notes.The first few sips go down like nails, but after that I start to feel the soft, dangerous hum of buzzed optimism.
Abbey, Ella and Gloria take their turns with hair and make-up while I prepare to be stuffed into a bridesmaid dress that’s been in transit from Sydney and, by all logic, should’ve been lost somewhere between Surry Hills and rural oblivion.
‘Wow,’ I say, eyeing the garment bag.‘I’m impressed.I had a whole identity crisis planned if this thing didn’t show.’
Abbey and I had tried the dresses on before shipping.Slimline, rose-coloured, one-shoulder.Elegant.Tasteful.Designed by someone who hates bras.The back dips so low that I have no choice but to place my faith in boob tape.
Abbey steps out of the changing room looking perfect – sleek and hungover in that chic way only she can pull off.
We stand in front of the full-length mirror, staring at ourselves objectively and still trying to forgive any minor flaws.
‘Not too bad, eh?’I say, adjusting the strap and pretending the fabric isn’t actively waging war on my side boob.
