Chapter 2
Two
I collide with a wall of solid muscle, my balance tilting dangerously as I grasp at fabric—expensive, tailored fabric. And then a scent washes over me. Crisp, clean, familiar, tinged with apples and linen.
My stomach drops.
I know that scent. I know exactly who I’ve just crashed into.
And of course. Of course he’s here.
Alder.
He reaches out and grips my elbow to keep me upright. My pulse rattles through my veins as he braces me against his chest. His touch is steady, commanding, insistent—so sure it feels inevitable, like the sunrise or my own breath.
Alder Hawke always finds me when I’m at my weakest.
“Gemma.” My name rolls off his tongue like he owns it, like he always has.
His blue eyes lock on mine, burning through every shield, exposing my raw nerves and hidden doubts.
I suck in panicked gulps of air, the dress squeezing me from every direction. I’m barely standing. Barely breathing. I must look like hell—flushed and flustered, corset strangling the life out of me while my boobs stage a prison break.
Embarrassment scorches my cheeks, and I know I’m tomato red, sweatin’ like a sinner in church, smelling like burnt hair.
And all the while, he’s just standing there, calm, composed, taking in every inch of the disaster that is currently me.
Elsie’s voice pierces the air like a siren. “Oh my goddess! Your hair!”
Her wild red curls bounce with every step as she darts over, round face flushed with panic, brown eyes scanning me and the singed ends of my ponytail.
I barely register her approach, my brain still catching up to the fact that Alder is here. Alder is touching me.
“Are you okay?!” She stops a few feet short, wringing her hands in front of her chest. “How did that even happen?” she asks, her voice pitching higher. “Not that it’s your fault! Obviously.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble and try not to collapse under the weight of his stare.
“The dress!” Elsie gasps, her attention shifting to the dress like it’s the victim here.
Her hands flutter like frantic little birds, patting every wrinkled inch of fabric.
“Oh, thank goddess.” She presses her freckled hands to her chest. “I mean, burning hair is one thing, but a dress? That’d be a whole other level of disaster. ”
Her eyes widen, and her cheeks brighten with a blush. “Not that your hair’s a disaster! You look great! Really. Like…I’ve seen worse. Way worse.”
I stare at her, trying to focus, but all I can feel is the heat radiating from Alder. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He watches me like a wolf eyeing prey. It’s a look that says he could pull me apart without lifting a finger, and I’d probably let him.
Elsie glances nervously over her shoulder at him before leaning in closer to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It was the candles, wasn’t it? I’ve been telling the manager we need fewer candles. But does anyone listen to the new girl? Nooooo.”
I blink, still processing, but she’s already moved on.
“I’m just glad you weren’t standing near the crystal display,” she continues, rushing to fill the silence. “Those things are practically weapons. Imagine impaling yourself right before the wedding.”
She gives a nervous laugh before sucking in a breath.
“Oh! The wedding!” She smooths the dress again even though, after a good steam, it’ll be perfectly fine. “I—I am so so sorry. This isn’t your dress.”
My mind buzzes, but I can’t help the ghost of a smile that pulls at my lips. “That’s a relief.”
“My manager is looking for your dress—the bridesmaid’s dress. That’s why this one is a bit…” She waves her hands toward my chest, where my boobs are currently waging war against this corset.
Alder’s gaze doesn’t waver. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say something—something I’m not ready for. But when he speaks, it’s not a taunt.
“It’s good to see you, Gemma.” His voice is low and smooth and rolls down my spine like melted wax. Just like it used to.
And then, there it is. That smirk. Like he’s already forgotten every wrong thing he ever did.
But I haven’t.
I brace myself for the cutting remark, the passive aggressive dig. Something that will remind me why I left.
“You look—” He pauses, head tilting slightly, like he’s searching for the right word. His blue eyes catch on the tight corset, the mess of fabric, the fact that I am very clearly struggling.
I tense, waiting for the humiliation, the tease.
“Beautiful.”
The word lands in the pit of my stomach. “I—”
His gaze trails from my face, over the wrinkled, too-tight dress, the flushed skin of my collarbone, the singed ends of my ponytail.
With that same effortless confidence, he murmurs, “I think this might be my favorite look on you.”
It’s not sarcastic, not mocking. It’s soft, almost admiring.
But that’s the trap, isn’t it? Because Alder never just says things. Every word is placed like a chess move, every look is meant to pull me in, to make me second-guess myself, to make me feel like I was wrong for leaving.
My throat tightens.
He smiles. “Tell me, Gemma, did you set yourself on fire just for me?”
There’s the teasing edge. Just enough to disarm me, to make it feel like he’s being playful. Like this is normal and we aren’t standing in the middle of a bridal store six months after I swore I’d never be with him again.
I swallow, my brain screaming at me to speak. But all I can hear is the way he said beautiful. Like he meant it. Like he’s never meant anything else more.
A door along the back wall swings open with a creak, and the energy shifts.
A woman glides in. She’s tall, draped in flowing black fabric speckled with silver moons, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders in loose waves, a few white strands glinting in the light. The scent of sage and something metallic, almost electric, trails behind her.
She stops in front of me, her kohl-lined eyes locking onto mine in a way that makes my stomach clench.
“I found it,” she says, her voice low and smooth.
She lifts the baby-chick yellow gown with reverence. Silver rings adorn nearly every finger and clink together like chimes as she touches the airy fabric.
“The powder blue is for the bride. This”—she raises the yellow gown a little higher—“is yours.”
I try to thank her, but my mouth is dry.
The way she’s watching me feels…off. It’s like she’s not simply seeing me. She’s reading me. Every thought. Every secret.
A chill tickles my back, and I wrap my arms around my middle.
Her gaze flicks to Alder, then back to me. A knowing smile curves her lips.
“Such strange energy in the air today,” she muses, almost to herself, her eyes narrowing slightly as she traces a pattern in the air with her fingers.
“I felt it the moment you walked in.” She steps closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“You’re standing at a crossroads, dear. Be careful which way you turn. ”
Her eyes hold mine, and it feels like she’s waiting for me to say a thought she already sees swirling inside my head.
“Thank you?”
I take the dress and nod numbly, retreating into the dressing room with the new outfit and the singed ends of my ponytail. My fingers tremble as I pull off the too-tight wedding dress, the fabric sticking to my skin like a Band-Aid.
“Two things!” Amanda’s voice buzzes through the phone, sharp and urgent. “One, I am so happy you didn’t go up in flames. I’m way too old to find a new best friend. Two…” She leans closer to the screen, eyes wide. “Did I just hear Alder Fucking Hawke?”
I groan. “Yeah, yeah you did.”
Amanda’s brows shoot up so high they practically disappear beneath her bangs.
I hang Mackenzie’s dress on the hook, my heart still hammering. “What the hell is he even doing here? This is a bridal boutique not a…a—”
“Corporate boardroom? Offshore tax haven? Or, I don’t know, a fucking villain’s lair?”
My laugh comes out shaky. “Exactly.”
Amanda’s eyes narrow. “Hand him the phone.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, chin tilted at an angle that means she’s ready to throw hands.
And this wouldn’t be the first time she’s torn into him via FaceTime.
Amanda’s been my best friend since our first soul-crushing corporate retreat in our early twenties, back when we were both fresh-faced assistants at the publishing house.
She may live in New York, but she’s had front-row seats to every adult version of me—including the Alder years.
Shaking my head, I pick up the phone. I can’t let her do that again. Not when my own emotions are violently rattling around inside me, already unraveling everything I’ve tried so hard to hold together.
“I have to go.”
“Gem—”
“I’ll call you later.”
Before she can protest further, I hang up.
I press my back against the satin-covered wall and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the storm raging in my chest. But it’s useless.
The icy weight of his gaze. The way my name drips from his lips like a prayer. The smirk that told me he already knew I’d be back.
Six months ago I walked away from Alder Hawke. Now I am back in South Carolina standing dead center in a past I never fully let go of.
I clear my throat, flexing my fingers, willing them to stop shaking as I fumble with the zipper of the correct dress.
My hands are too unsteady, my body too hot, my mind too full of him.
There’s a soft knock on the doorframe.
“Gemma.” Alder’s voice threads through the curtain like smoke, curling into places I swore I’d sealed shut. “We should talk.”
A suggestion wrapped around a command. Silk over steel. He’s always done this, made me believe I had a choice, when the reality is, I never do.
My pulse hammers, stubbornly unwilling to obey. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
But even I don’t believe it.
The velvet curtain flutters, and I catch the shine of his polished shoes just beneath the hem. Alder knows exactly what he’s doing. Standing close enough that I can feel him, even though we’re separated by a sliver of fabric.