Chapter 11 Schedule the Wedding-Dress Fitting
? Schedule the Wedding-Dress Fitting
Amy is stunning.
In a silky white tulle dress with a fit-and-flare silhouette and sweetheart neckline, she looks lovely. And visibly anxious.
She chews on her lower lip. “What do you think?”
Jordan studies her from a cream-colored love seat. He taps a finger on its flared arm. They’re at a chic bridal boutique on the northeastern side of the city. The whole interior is swimming in an unreal glow. A smart décor decision.
He imagines dresses flying off their gold hangers just from the way the lighting makes them look in the mirrors alone.
Technically, Jordan doesn’t have to be here for this.
He’s seen enough photos of the dress to design around it.
But Amy requested his appearance. Her bridal party is spread out across the country, old friends from Brighton and Emory who’ve since moved away.
While she trusts Jamie, Amy wanted a second opinion.
Today, Jordan’s being professionally supportive.
And Jamie’s here too, so …
He’s next to Jordan on the love seat.
They haven’t discussed what happened last Friday night.
Which is good. Jordan doesn’t know how to approach a conversation about Jamie giving him his first-ever blow job.
Or how Jordan got lost twice driving home after, thinking about Jamie’s head between his legs.
His blissed-out smile so close to Jordan’s dick.
It’s just like that kiss when they were teens. It happened, and now they’re pretending it didn’t.
Very mature of them.
Jamie taps his chin, thinking. “Do a slow turn.”
A little wobbly, Amy does.
“One hop this time.”
Amy’s forehead crinkles.
“Right foot, let’s stomp,” Jamie instructs in an all-too-familiar voice. Jordan swallows a laugh. “Left foot, let’s stomp. Cha-cha, real smooth—”
Amy flips two middle fingers at him. It’s the first real smile she’s cracked since they arrived.
“Sorry, Ames, but this is where I, a man who dresses like this”—Jamie signals to his choice of a black Henley and tight dark chinos cinched at the ankle—“am very unhelpful.”
Amy scowls. Jordan can see this going sideways fast.
He elbows Jamie for her. “The gown’s beautiful, Amy. It’ll look great in photos.”
“You think so?”
A practiced grin glides over Jordan’s mouth. “I already see you on the cover of Southern Bride.”
Amy’s own smile dims a fraction. She carefully turns around on the small gold riser to face the mirrors. Marisol, the seamstress, steadies her before getting to work on the bodice.
Amy tucks locks of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t originally want a wedding this … big,” she says to her reflection.
Jordan straightens. “You didn’t?”
“I’m not a cover girl. I’m simple.”
“Hey,” Jamie says with a mock glare. “That’s my friend you’re talking about.”
“I know, I know.” Amy snort-giggles. “But I’m serious. I’m a bookish, nerdy girl who—don’t judge me—always pictured getting married on, like, a farm. In a rustic barn. With twenty guests, max.”
“That’s not bad,” Jordan comments.
“Or, like, eloping in Vegas,” Amy adds.
Jamie gives a slow clap. “There’s the drama. Jane Austen, Bellagio style!”
Another snorty laugh flies out of Amy. She quietly apologizes to Marisol after almost tipping off the riser. “That’s not how Sam’s family lives,” she says with a sigh. “He’s a McClintock. I couldn’t ask him for that.”
Why not? is on the tip of Jordan’s tongue. Questions like that are crossing the line. He’s here to plan, not interfere.
Instead, he reiterates, “It’s still a gorgeous dress.”
“My mom picked it out,” Amy says with that same sad smile. “It’s a gift from my parents, who are—”
She stops short.
Beside Jordan, Jamie chews his thumbnail. There are a lot of unsaid words in their shared stares. A life Jordan’s not privy to. He refuses to let that bother him.
Finally, Amy says, “I like it.”
“But you don’t love it,” Jordan says, surprising himself.
She puts on her best smile, though Jordan can see the fight behind her eyes. “It’ll look great on our wedding day.”
Amy leaves it at that.
Jordan does too. His phone pings with a new notification.
The first half of his inbox is filled with emails from Javi. To avoid dealing with him in person, Jordan’s taken to giving Javi assignments. Tiny tasks to check off so he feels like Jordan appreciates his knowledge or whatever.
The latest emails are about DJs. Lydia continues to insist on a small orchestra for the ceremony. Jordan’s determined to convince her otherwise. At least for the reception. No one’s doing the “Cupid Shuffle” to Mozart.
At least, not without a much bigger alcohol budget.
“Be back soon,” Marisol says to Amy.
The boutique’s short-staffed today. A summer flu has descended on Atlanta. Jordan refuses to acknowledge his mom’s CDC conspiracy theory.
On the other side of the shop is another couple waiting to be fitted by Marisol. She hurries off to them.
“Hey.”
Jamie’s voice has a playful, almost conspiratorial edge to it. Jordan hates that he’s immediately drawn to it too.
“Hmm?”
“I have an idea.”
Jordan squints. “That’s never good.”
“It is if it’ll cheer Amy up.”
Jordan’s eyes flit over to her. She twists side to side. Pushes her hair up, and lets it fall just above her shoulders. He can tell she’s desperate to fall in love with the dress. With the woman she sees in the mirrors.
But nothing’s working.
Jordan whispers, “Will it get us kicked out? Or worse—on the five o’clock news?”
“Forgettable headline on the ten o’clock news right after the weather report at best,” Jamie teases.
Jordan’s gaze lands on the crooked curve of his mouth. Jordan’s kissed those lips, more than once now. Those full, pink, wicked lips have also—
“Are you in?”
Jordan snaps back to himself. “Am I—what?”
Jamie wiggles something in front of him. A tiny baggie with colorful sugar-coated cubes inside.
Jordan balks. “Weed gummies? You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Jamie confirms.
“We can’t.”
“We can.” Jamie unseals the bag. “They’re harmless.”
“Harmless as those pot brownies were supposed to be?”
“Is it my fault you had such a low tolerance?”
“Me?” Jordan practically screeches.
“What are you two doing over there?” Amy asks.
Jordan scrambles back like they’ve been caught making out on the love seat rather than discussing some questionably legal candies that Jamie’s freely waving in the air now.
“A mood lifter,” Jamie proposes.
“Garden gummies?”
Jordan looks around, as if at any moment an undercover officer is going to jump out from a rack of dresses and arrest them.
Amy, however, is considering the idea.
“Ames,” Jamie says in that gently convincing voice that has swayed Jordan into some quite diabolical situations over the years. “You need a break from stressful wedding shit. You deserve to let loose. Have fun.”
Amy continues to ponder.
Jamie smiles. “At least have one to make it through today.”
Jordan watches the change in her expression. The slow shift from logical to spellbound. They’re doomed.
“Gimme,” she demands, palm out.
“Fuck yes,” Jamie says, then shrinks down when he realizes he’s too loud. He would make the world’s worst criminal.
He shakes out a single gummy for Amy. Then he tosses one in his own mouth. When he turns to Jordan, there’s a dangerous look in his eyes, a sideways grin Jordan didn’t dream about the other night.
(He did. At least it kept the nightmares away.)
“I’m not doing this without you,” Jamie tells him.
“You already did!”
Jamie sticks out his tongue. A half-chewed gummy sits in the middle of the long, pink surface. And now Jordan’s not thinking about what that tongue has done to him.
He sighs. “Fuck it.” Jordan needs a break from his own head.
Jamie does a tiny victory dance.
The effect isn’t instant. For the most part, Jordan’s fine. The inside of his mouth tastes like watermelon kiwi. And sharp, tangy THC. But it’s been thirty minutes, and he’s okay.
They all are.
Marisol’s back, working on the hem of Amy’s dress.
Jamie slouches on the love seat, legs spread. Every few breaths, his knee brushes Jordan’s. A little reminder he’s still there. He’s not going anywhere. They don’t have to talk about what happened the other night.
And who knows? Maybe it’ll happen again.
Maybe Jordan’s already thought about it happening again. While working out in the gym. Or in the shower. Standing over his kitchen counter as his dinner goes cold. Right now, as Jamie twists a finger through his thick, messy waves.
The same hair Jordan tugged on and—
“I was going to get my master’s,” Amy says out of nowhere.
Startled, Jordan cocks his head. “Sorry?”
Amy’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy. “I was going to go back to school,” she says like they were in the middle of a conversation. “Sam talked me out of getting another degree. He wants me in London.”
“You know,” Jamie says, “there’s this thing called online classes.”
“No,” she says dramatically. “There won’t be time. His mom wants to spend quality time with me. While we’re in London. While ‘our boys are making magic on the set.’”
She affects Lydia’s voice in a way that shouldn’t be as funny as it is.
Marisol eyes each of them in the mirror as they laugh. She keeps working.
“Besides,” Amy huffs, “Sam says another degree is useless. It doesn’t align with our plans.”
“Plans are changeable,” Jordan tells her. Not that he’s an expert on that or anything …
“What he said!” Jamie agrees. His knee rubs against Jordan’s again.
Amy frowns. “Not for me.”
“Not with that attitude,” Jamie grumbles.
“God, I don’t even look like myself,” Amy says to her reflection. Tears are misting in her eyes. Her hands tremble.
Oh, fuck.
Jordan sits up a little too fast. The THC has definitely kicked in for Amy. How didn’t he see this sooner?
“I-I’m—” Amy sucks in a sharp breath.
Jordan’s brain is too slow for words. His tongue’s too heavy in his mouth. And really? Right now? He can’t possibly be feeling the weed at this very second.
Not when his client’s two seconds from having a meltdown in a gorgeous gown.