Chapter 11 Sabrina
Sabrina
“This is a trap.”
I glare at Cole as we park in front of Bellamy’s Bridal.
Crescent Ridge has enough weddings to support a bridal boutique, but no one’s interested in running one.
I closed the bookstore early and Cole only worked half a shift so he could drive me down the mountain to Bramble. All to pick out a wedding dress.
“White dresses, peppy salesladies, pastel wallpaper. I’m about to be buried alive in chiffon.”
Cole grins, annoyingly smug, and pushes the glass door open wider for me in invitation.
“You want to get married on the 13th. That means today we need to pick out a dress.”
“I was thinking thrift store. Maybe a dramatic cloak. Definitely not…” my voice trails off as I gesture at the rack of gowns that were designed with princesses in mind. “This.”
The saleslady appears like a fairy godmother hopped up on espresso. She’s eager, chipper, and from her white blouse, black pencil skirt, and chunky necklace, my antithesis.
“Congratulations! Are we looking for a wedding dress?”
“Depends,” I say. “Do you have anything in black?”
Her face freezes in horror.
“Black?”
Cole’s arm slides around my waist.
“She’s got a plan to dye it. Don’t worry. Whatever’s white now won’t stay white for long.”
I nod solemnly.
“Think Addams Family chic. Morticia if she got day-drunk on champagne.”
The poor woman blinks like she’s trying to compute sacrilege, but then she rallies.
“We… do have a few in ivory that might take dye well!”
Cole leans down, whispering in my ear, “See? Told you it’d work.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at my mouth as she ushers me toward the dressing room.
After I wrestle my way into the first gown, lace and satin layers that weigh about a hundred pounds, I step out of the room and onto a raised pedestal.
Cole doesn’t even try to hide his reaction.
His jaw goes slack as I twirl, then he makes this low, reverent sound in his throat that blasts a wave of heat straight through me.
“Holy hell,” he mutters. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
I snort. I have a feeling he’s going to say that about every dress I try on today.
“Cole, I look like a frosted cupcake.”
“You look like mine,” he says simply. And damn do I like it.
The saleslady claps her hands like she just married us herself.
“A man of impeccable taste!”
We cycle through a few more gowns. Each time, Cole vibrates with excitement, circling me like he’s memorizing all the details.
He doesn’t care that they’re white. He doesn’t care that I plan to dunk whichever one makes the cut in a vat of dye like some goth science experiment.
He cares about what each dress symbolizes. That I’m his.
By the time I’m back in the dressing room after what feels like the twentieth dress, my pulse is racing, and my head is spinning. Which is why I reach into my tote bag for the secret weapon.
Lace lingerie. In black of course. The saleslady is away from the dressing room pulling more dresses and Cole is lingering nearby unwilling to wait even a second longer than necessary to see me in the next dress.
I planned to wait until we left and surprise him on the ride back home but now is better. I don’t want to wait either.
I slip the bra and panty set on before stepping out of the dressing room like I own the damn place.
Cole’s eyes darken instantly.
“Fucking hell, Sabrina.”
“You like?” I twirl.
“Like?” His voice drops to a growl. “I’m about two seconds from hauling you out of here.”
Heat pools low in my belly.
“What about your vow to wait?”
“Still stands.” His grin is wolfish. “But now I know what’s waiting for me on the other side.”
Before I can retort, the saleslady bustles up, two more dresses in hand. “How’s that one—”
Her words cut off as her eyes go wide. She takes in the lace, the bare skin and her face goes crimson.
“Oh! Oh my. I…I’ll just…check the veils.”
She flees like she’s been exorcised.
Mortified, I press a hand over my face. I thought I would have more time before she came back.
“She thinks I’m a stripper.”
Cole’s laugh rumbles deep and satisfied.
“No, pretty girl. She thinks I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
The saleslady recovers eventually, still pink in the cheeks as she wheels out another rack. This time, she brings something different, sleek silk with long sleeves that flair out like batwings and a deep plunging neckline, the skirt flowing instead of puffing. It’s dramatic. It’s elegant. It’s me.
Slipping it only confirms my instinct.
When I step out, Cole goes utterly still. His eyes drag over me slowly, and for once there’s no smirk, no teasing edge. Just awe.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
It’s not the first time he’s said it. He would marry me in a garment bag.
But this time, when I look in the mirror, half-expecting to hate it the way I hated the others, I don’t.
I love it. This is the one. The black dye will make it perfect.
Witchy, gothic, and mine. For the first time, I actually see myself getting married. Not as a parody of a bride, but as me.
Then I glance at the price tag. My stomach drops.
“Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not.” I whirl, already reaching for the zipper. “That’s highway robbery. I could buy a whole library’s worth of rare first editions for that price.”
Cole is off the white upholstered settee in a heartbeat, stepping into my path.
“You love it.”
“That’s not the point. I can’t drop that kind of money on a dress I’ll wear once.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He pulls out his wallet like the conversation’s already over.
“Cole,” I hiss, batting at his hand. “Don’t you dare—”
“Too late.” He hands over his card to the saleslady, who looks like she might faint with relief after the lingerie incident. “She’s taking it home.”
I gape at him.
“You can’t—”
He tips my chin up with two fingers, his eyes locking on mine, steady and unmovable as the mountain we call home.
“Pretty girl, I’ve waited my whole damn life for you. If you want this dress, you’re getting it. Let me do this.”
My throat tightens. The words die on my tongue, stolen by his stern glare. He’s not just buying a dress. He’s staking his claim, showing me that I’m worth it, that he’s here for all of it. The vows, the future, us.
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. I’m not going to cry. This mascara isn’t waterproof, and my eyes will get all red and puffy. Blinking rapidly to clear my blurry vision I muster my best glare.
“You’re impossible.”
His mouth curves.
“Maybe. But I’m your impossible.”
And just like that, I have my wedding dress.