Chapter 27
Tuck
There’s a fine line between brilliance and madness, and right now, Pen is toeing it.
She’s in the middle of her mother’s old dining room, surrounded by open sketchbooks, half a bottle of wine, and a growing mountain of lace.
Somewhere along the way, this crisis—Mia’s wedding dress gone wrong—turned into a full-scale design war zone. The big oak table is buried under fabric scraps and dressmaking pins. A lampstand is draped in silk scarves and a table runner. And Pen, perched on the edge of a chair, one leg tucked under her, is currently pinning doilies to the waist of what looks like a new bodice mock-up. Yup. Doilies .
I take another sip of wine and try not to ask questions.
Except as it takes shape, I can’t really refrain.
“Er, is that…a peplum ?”
I mean—really? Sure, the peplum might have its roots in ancient Greece, but that doesn’t automatically make it iconic. I know Christian Dior had a good run with it, as a feature of his ’40s New Look: sharp, sculpted, dramatic.
But then came the ’80s, and, well, we all know what that decade did to fashion. Shoulder pads. Neon. A peplum revival that led straight into the questionable styling choices of the ’90s. And now Pen’s sitting here, draping doilies like they hold the answer to everything, and I’m really not sure where this is going.
“This can work,” she mutters, more to herself than to me, her fingers flying over the fabric, adjusting, refitting, completely in the zone. “We need to think outside the box.”
This is definitely outside the box: her grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine, lace tablecloths, a vintage beaded shawl…
”Um, what’s with the old jewelry box?”
She shoots me a look, one I know well. The I swear to god, Tuck, don’t start look.
So I don’t. What does it matter that, among the other random supplies, she has a padded box, spilling dangly earrings, knotted necklaces and pendants? Right now, all I can do is sit here, drink my wine, and hope to hell she finds the breakthrough she’s chasing.
Since I know better than to interfere with Pen’s process, I scroll through my phone. As I scan through various images, I realize the problem with peplums generally isn’t the peplum itself. It’s the proportions. Get it wrong, and it throws off the whole balance, making everything look shorter and awkward. Get it right, and somehow, it’s sleek, structured, supremely flattering.
The real crime of the ’90s? Wearing peplums with skintight jeans instead of wide-legged pants for balance. I skim past a photo of some European royal in a perfectly tailored pink set—a design by Carolina Herrera, who knows how to get it right. Then there’s a sculptural take on it by Alexander McQueen, and of course, you can rely on Givenchy for a softer, cleaner approach.
I mean. Maybe she’s onto something. When it’s done right, it can become high fashion, polished, intentional.
Then I glance up from my phone as Pen adds another doily, muttering under her breath so that I hope she doesn’t swallow one of the pins stuck between her lips. And I’m honestly not sure if we’re heading toward brilliance or disaster, but either way, we’re in too deep to stop now.
I attempt to envision a wedding dress emerging from this mess of fabric and discarded ideas. A draped sleeve she agonized over for two hours is unceremoniously cast aside. An asymmetrical neckline meets its demise. A gathered waist bites the dust.
Then I return from tossing out pizza boxes to find her stripped down to her lavender panties, contorted like a human pretzel in front of the mirror that she’s propped on a dining chair.
I stop dead, mesmerized.
One arm is awkwardly twisted behind her back, holding a row of pins between her fingers, while the other smooths fabric over her hip. She’s adding an improvised skirt to the strapless bodice she’s somehow pieced together, the delicate drape shifting as she moves.
Somehow, in the mess of fabric scraps and half-formed ideas, something is happening. The lighting catches just right, turning the soft folds of the pinned skirt into something weightless, effortless.
Pen’s flushed face is focused, her bare shoulders stark against the delicate white she’s draping over her hips. It shouldn’t make sense—her twisted pose, the makeshift design—but for a fleeting second, it does. Like a caterpillar emerging from a tangle of threadbare silk, she stands there, not just stitching together a dress, but becoming something else entirely.
A bride …she looks like a bride.
The realization lands with unexpected force, and a slow, unshakable longing curls in my chest. I swallow hard, struggling to shake it off. Then, Pen turns, testing the fall of the lace, oblivious to the way she’s just knocked the breath out of me.
If she were standing at the end of an aisle, hair pinned up, eyes searching for someone—hell, I want it to be me. The realization hits like a sucker punch, unexpected and impossible to ignore.
We’ve kissed more times than I can count. Sex in every way conceivable…and some occasions beyond. But this is different.
I step closer. “Hold still.”
She barely glances at me, still fussing with a fold of lace, but I reach out anyway, gathering a section of her hair and sweeping it up, twisting it like she might for an updo. My fingers graze the back of her neck, and she stills, her breath catching.
In the mirror, our eyes meet. A flicker of something—uncertainty, awareness—flares in the space between us. I should step back. Shake it off. But I don’t.
Instead, I let my hand drift down, tracing the delicate edge of lace where it meets her skin. “Pen.” My voice is coarse.
She turns to me.
I brush my knuckles along her jaw, tilting her face up to mine, and when I kiss her, it’s not just heat—it’s something deeper, something that settles in my chest like an ache.
She exhales against me, soft and breathless, melting into the kiss. And I know I’m in trouble. Because this isn’t just about convincing her to see me as more. Not just about proving I could be the guy she considers a kid with.
This is me wanting everything. More than even I bargained for.
“Wow…” She sighs against my lips.
She leans back, eyes dark and knowing. “Was that your way of telling me to call it a night? Because that kiss was extremely persuasive.”
“It was meant to be.” I trail my fingers along her waist, feeling the stiff fabric and the sharp bite of pins beneath my touch. “The only question is…how do I get you out of this?”
She laughs, low and husky. “With great care. Unless you want to end up with a handful of pins in unfortunate places.”
“On second thought…” My gaze drifts down, tracing the curve of her cleavage, the teasing glimpses of skin where the lace and silk shift against her body. “Maybe I want you to stay in it.”
“Oh, really?” Pen’s lips curl as she drops her eyes to my crotch. “This virginal white lace doing something for you?”
“It really is.” I reach for her again, wrapping my arms around her hips, drawing her close.
With a grin, I spin her under my arm, pulling her back into me like a bridal waltz. She throws her head back, laughing, then tumbles into my chest, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
“Good point, Tuck.” She tilts her head back to meet my gaze in the mirror. “A wedding dress has to move well on the dance floor, as well as down the aisle.”
I move behind her, my hands tracing the contours of her hips, gliding over the delicate swell of her breasts. Touching, claiming. Marking what I want access to now and forever.
A surge of need wells inside me, hot and undeniable. A hunger not just to have her, but to own this moment. To possess her completely. To stake an undisputed claim so there’s never a question, never a doubt that she’s mine.
Some of the pinned scaffolds of fabric gape apart, and I slide my hand beneath the gathering, finding the heat of her skin.
She gasps, her breath catching as my fingers skate lower. Her gaze stays locked on the mirror, on the reflection of my hands gripping her, claiming her, coaxing her to surrender inch by inch.
A shiver rolls through her, her body arching instinctively into my touch. I press my lips to the curve of her neck, dragging my teeth lightly over her pulse, feeling the tremor that follows.
I nudge her back against the table, my cock straining, my control hanging by a thread. Her ass meets the solid oak, and she leans back, lace slipping against her skin, the hint of her taut pink nipples teasing through delicate fabric.
This needs to happen. Right here. Right now.
I push between her and the tabletop, bracing an arm, muscles taut.
“What are you—” she starts, but I’m already moving.
I sweep a forearm across the table, sending fabric swatches, scissors, sketchbooks, and the jewelry box crashing to the floor.
Her lips part in shock. “Oh.”
I grab her hips, forcing her into place. She meets my gaze, her breath shallow, pupils blown wide. Her lips part, ready to say something, maybe to tease, maybe to taunt. But I don’t let her
I cover her mouth with my hand as I push her flat against the table, then fumble to undo my jeans.
The dress can wait.