Page 48 of Broken Vows

Bzzzz. “Fuck!” I lower the camera with the sounds of my phone vibrating against the table, drop my fist from my cock, and shut the curtain. A nauseating heat flushes my body.

I stuff myself back inside my pants, yank up my zipper, and look at the phone.

Seeing a message from Anna across the screen makes my stomach drop.

Anna: Call me. It’s urgent.

I slump against the couch, wipe my hands off on my jeans, and dial.

22 Lexie

My co-workers are bustling around me, wrapped up in their work, completely oblivious to how my life is spinning out of control. I’m trying so hard to focus on the specs of the Victorian home where the wedding will be held, but everything blurs. Instead of focusing, I keep manically swiping through my phone on my endless search for a woman in New York named Olivia.

I can’t stop thinking about that name since I saw it in Theo’s office a week ago. I’ve spent countless hours online chasing every possible lead on this woman. So far, nothing.

But I will find out who she is.

The other thing I’ll do? Stop obsessing over Theodore Astor, why he hasn’t contacted me since he drove me back home, and regain control over my body. It’s wrong, sick, and I hate myself for it.

My phone rings and panic flares, a ridiculous flash of fear that he can read my mind. Relief washes over me when I see the caller ID. Annabelle. I paste on a smile I know will carry through my voice and answer. “Hi Annabelle, lovely to hear from you.”

“Lexie, we have a major fucking problem.”

Shit. That’s the sound of a woman with bad news. My stomach knots and my mind races ahead of itself. Theo told her. Fuck. He told her everything and now she’s calling to fire me. I’m going to lose my raise, my promotion, probably my goddamn job. And the worst part? I wouldn’t even blame her. I brought this on myself and she has every right to cut me loose.

“My dress is terrible,” she says.

My head stops spinning. “Wait, what?”

“It just arrived for alterations and it’s nothing like the pictures online. The fabric will make me break out in hives, alterations cannot fix the monstrosity of the cardboard corset, the tulle…” She doesn’t take a breath as she lists everything wrong with the dress and how she doesn’t have a moment to go dress-shopping because of her grandma.

“I need you to go pick one out for me.”

My body convulses into a weird choking laugh until I gain composure. “I can’t pick out your dress. This is the most important thing you’ll ever wear in your life. You do not want to trust this with a stranger.”

“You are not a stranger and I implicitly trust you.” Those words shoot a dagger through me. She trusts me. God, I hate myself. Does she know that I’ve touched myself every night this past week picturing her fiancé’s hands on me? I’m sick. I’m so sick. Tonight, I’m looking up confessional times at St. John’s and getting rid of this demon.

Annabelle assures me that she’s “not picky”, and as long as the fabric doesn’t feel like shit, it’ll be fine. I reluctantly agree, while kindly reminding her that I can’t try anything on for her without stating the obvious that my curves, full boobs and ass are totally the opposite of her “reminiscent of a ’90s runway model” physique. She sends me her measurements, I call around the city for a shop that has an available appointment, and by four p.m. I’m in a cab on my way to Brooklyn.

I contemplate sending Theo a text and letting him know but decide against it. Distance is the best decision right now.

At the private shop, I buzz the intercom and a sharply dressed gray-haired woman with a tight bun and bright pink lips welcomes me inside the softly lit, plush-carpeted boutique, and introduces herself. “We are so grateful that the bride chose us to find her the perfect dress!”

“Thanks so much for squeezing me in. We are grateful for your help.”

“It’s no problem at all.”

Is it, though? I’ve been around these places long enough to know that wedding-dress shops rarely care about accommodating bridal emergencies. They’re the type of shop that turns people away without a six-month-in-advance appointment. Funny how dropping the Barlowe name along with the required NDA opened the doors.

“I can’t say we’ve ever had a planner try on the bride’s dresses before,” the woman says as she escorts me past the main showroom. Inside the private fitting area, floor-length mirrors, plush sofas, and marble tables with elaborate floral arrangements surround us. “But thankfully we have the bride’s measurements, though the sizing might be tricky.”

Oof. Thank God I love my body, or this little spitfire here might just get a throat punch. “I’m not trying any on. I’m just going to look.”

“Okay, then,” she says. “Oh, I forgot to let you know that you have someone waiting for you. He’s in the back.”

Shit. She doesn’t need to say who it is—it couldn’t be anyone else. I don’t need this. Not now. Earlier today, I was terrified his bride would find out about us. Now I’m fighting the stupid flutter in my stomach at the thought of being near him again. It’s so fucking wrong. He’s getting married. I’m planning his wedding. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s developed a crush on a client before, but have they felt this?

“Hey!” Theo says, with a wide smile and even wider arms. He pulls me in for a quick, professional hug, and ends it with a pat on the back. Clearly whatever happened last week did not affect him at all.