Chapter 4
Claire
The boutique smells like gardenias and orange blossom when I push through the door of Bella’s Bridal, fifteen minutes early because I’m always early. A compulsion left over from medical school that I can’t shake, especially when I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be, but this isn’t just a fitting.
Hunter’s going to be here.
I sign in at the front desk, an antique sideboard with a glass doors that showcases a mix of bridal bouquets and veils. The receptionist hands me a glass of champagne then guides me toward the back where Esme is seated on one of the pink velour sofas, beaming.
I lean down and kiss my girlfriend’s cheek, plopping next to her as we wait for the others.
“This is a big day.”
She squeal, almost dropping her champagne flute. “I can’t wait to see you in the dresses!”
This is our first fitting since the order was placed, so I’m excited to see the gowns everyone chose. Esme’s color palette is sunset satin, with mis-matched dresses warm tones.
Soon, the other bridesmaids join us, and the shop coordinator rolls the dress bags between the large guilded mirror and the changing rooms. Each bag is tagged with a name, mine being first from the left.
Adele, the seamstress, pulls my dress from the bag with practiced efficiency. “Claire?”
I stand and follow her behind the soft pink curtain, where I remove my clothing except for my strapless bra and underwear.
“Arms up.”
I do as instructed, and she slides the dress over my head. The material is cool against my skin, the lining smooth as it settles over my hips. She zips me up the side, then steps back while I step into my wedding shoes.
“Take a look.”
I turn toward the three-way mirror, and blink back at the woman in the mirror.
The sage green dress hugs my body, its cowl neckline dipping low enough to be interesting. The fabric skims my curves before falling to just past my ankles. I look good.
And Hunter’s going to see me like this.
My stomach clenches, sharp and sudden, like my body recognized him before I could think about it.
“Beautiful,” Adele says, opening the curtain. “Step onto the left platform.” She’s already reaching for her pincushion.
I step onto the round bridal riser, suddenly confronted by my own reflection. A feminine Claire in sage green, looking slightly panicked.
“I love it, Claire!” Esme’s voice is high-pitched.
“It’s stunning on you.” That’s her friend from high school.
The bridesmaids ooh and aww appropriately while Adele kneels and examines the hem, tugging at the fabric and pinning near my ankles.
The boutique door chimes, the sound slicing through the quiet, sharp enough to make every conversation in the room falter. Male voices fill the front room: Franklin’s laugh, someone else’s lower rumble, a very familiar grumble.
“That’ll be the groomsmen,” Adele says. “We’ll finish with you ladies first.”
Thank gawd. I need more time.
Except I don’t get it.
“Actually, let’s bring them in now,” Adele calls toward the front. “We can work simultaneously.”
No. No no no.
The groomsmen file in, Franklin first, followed by two others I vaguely recognize. And then Hunter. His boots hit the floor heavier than everyone else’s, a grounded, unmistakable rhythm despite being in this frufru space meant for women.
I will myself not to blush, but the heat crawls up my neck anyway.
He’s taller than I remember. Broader. The cream colored Henley pulls across his shoulders when he moves, and his left arm is free of the sling, moving naturally at his side despite the plastic splint. When his eyes scan the boutique and land on me standing on the platform, everything else fades.
A dark and hungry expression crosses his face before he masks it.
Franklin gives his bride-to-be a kiss, then settles on the cushioned benches next to the second platform.
“Hunter Ashe,” Adele calls. “Platform two. Let’s get you measured.”
He crosses the boutique, and suddenly he’s stepping onto the platform directly beside mine. The heat of him reaches me, my breath catching before I can stop it, like my body’s already reacting and I’m just trying to keep up.
A suspicious giggle floats through the conversations, and my eyes cut to Esme, who is hiding a smirk behind her champagne. Did she arrange for all of us to be here at the same time? Because that wasn’t the original plan.
Adele’s assistant starts with Hunter’s shoulders, running her tape across his back. His hands flex at his sides, rough and scarred, the kind of hands that build things, fix things, break things if they have to.
The measurement is impressive, the kind of muscle built from years of physical labor, not gyms. When she wraps the tape around his chest, I try very hard not to watch.
I fail.
“Left arm,” Adele instructs.
Hunter tosses his splint to Franklin, who catches it mid-air, then extends his arm.
My surgeon’s eye automatically tracks the movement.
The range of motion is better, close to eighty percent of his other arm, but there’s still a slight hesitation at full extension.
He’s compensating with his right side, the weight shifted almost imperceptibly.
“You analyzing my shoulder?” His eyes finding mine in the mirror.
I blink. “No.”
“Doc. You had your surgeon face on.” His mouth curves. “What’s the verdict?”
“You’re compensating. Right side is overworking to protect the left.”
“Kapoor said the same thing.”
“Then you should listen to him.”
“I’m doing my PT.” His voice drops lower. “You offering to supervise?”
My pulse hammers in my throat, pink tinging my cheeks. Why do I blush so much when I’m around Hunter?
The assistant finishes and steps back. “All set. Next!”
Hunter doesn’t move immediately. He’s still watching me in the mirror, and I can’t look away, the air between us thick and heavy.
When he steps down and heads toward the seating area, and I can finally breathe again despite Adele cinching in the waist of my dress.
Three days later, I’m reviewing post-op photos when Mariah from the unit desk appears with a bouquet, the kind of arrangement you’d find on the side of a Hill Country road but fancier.
It’s a mason jar filled with a mix of Indian paintbrush, sunflowers, lavender, and sprigs of greenery.
They’re beautiful, smelling faintly of a earthy sweetness.
“These just came for you.” She sets them on my desk, grinning.
I pluck the card from between the stems.
Still thinking about you in that green dress. —H
My face heats. Yet again.
“Who’s ‘H’?” Mariah leans over my shoulder.
“None of your business.”
“It’s Hunter Ashe.” Isaac walks up picks up the mason jar, examining it. “These are gorgeous. Very rustic. Very him.”
“You don’t even know him, Isaac.”
“I know he brought you coffee two weeks ago. I know he’s been asking Esme about you. And I know you’re pretending you’re not interested when everyone can that see you are.”
He high-fives Mariah, who heads back to her station, calling over her shoulder, “You should keep him!”
I stare at the wildflowers, the dusty purple and burnt orange petals beautiful against the sterile hospital desk.
My cell phone buzzes.
Hunter: There’s a sandwich from Hank & Lulu’s at the nurse’s station. Turkey avocado. Don’t make Isaac eat it.
Me: Thank you. And for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
Hunter: Not as beautiful as you in that dress, Doc.
I find Isaac holding a takeout bag, grinning. “Your lumberjack sent food.”
Inside is a note on the back of a receipt.
You’re terrible at taking care of yourself. Eat. —H
How would he even know that? And he’s decided it’s his job now to ensure I have proper nutrition? I should not be this affected by a sandwich.
I unroll the sandwich, still warm from the oven. The first bite is delicious, a the savory turkey mixing with the tomato and avocado perfectly with the toasted bread. My heart thaws at Hunter’s thoughtfulness as I realize how hungry I actually am.
Me: Thank you for lunch.
Hunter: You actually eating it?
Me: Yes.
Hunter: Good. You’re welcome.
It’s two weeks until the wedding, I’m back at Bella’s Bridal for the final fitting. The space is just as inviting, its floral scent mixing with the brick walls and antique accents nicely.
Before I go in, I sit in my car, staring at the boutique door.
At least this time, I know what to expect when I walk in.
It will be only me for the final fitting since everyone in the bridal party has staggered appointments throughout the week.
Thankful, I step inside and follow Adele’s assistant to the back where she helps me into the gown.
The sage green satin hugs my curves nicely, complimenting my red hair well. Esme insisted I choose this color, and I can see why. Knowing that I will walk down the aisle in this dress while Hunter watches sends a thrill through me that is hard to ignore.
As I step onto the platform, the curtains to the fitting area party.
My jaw drops as Hunter saunters through, wearing snug worn jeans and a neutral flannel shirt rolled up on his arms. The sling is completely gone.
Both arms move freely, the compensation in his shoulder almost entirely erased. The physical therapy has worked.
When he sees me, he stops mid-conversation with Adele, and his eyes track from my face down to my wedding shoes, and back up, slow and deliberate.
My breath catches.
“Hunter Ashe,” Adele calls. “Let’s get you in the suit.”
As he disappears into a dressing room, I try to steady my pulse and will red blotches not to appear on my chest.
I think I’m successful.
When he emerges, every coherent thought dissolves. The man fills the doorway like he was built for it, all sharp lines and dark fabric against the soft glow of the fitting room lights.
The beige linen suit emphasizes his broad shoulders and the taper of his waist. The white shirt is crisp against his tanned skin. His light brown hair is slightly messy, and the scruff along his jaw makes him look just rough enough to be dangerous.
He steps onto the platform beside mine while Adele inspects the fit.
“How’s it feel?”
“Good.” He lifts his left arm, testing the sleeve. The movement is smooth now, no hesitation.
“Perfect,” Adele says. “My assistant will check all the seams while I check the maid of honor..”
Hunter watches me in the mirror, and I can’t look away. The way his biceps fill the jacket sleeves just enough to let everyone see them stirs the butterflies in my tummy.
Then he moves—off the platform, across the floor, directly toward me. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. He smells like something wild and outdoorsy that doesn’t belong in a room full of silk and perfume.
“Two weeks,” he says quietly. “Then we’re in St. Sebastian.”
My pulse hammers at the faint brush of his breath on my skin. “I know.”
“Four days. You, me, and a Caribbean island.” His voice drops lower. “I’m done playing it safe, Claire. I want you. And I think you want me too.”
My pulse won’t slow, like my body hasn’t accepted what just happened.
… but Derek never showed up like this. He never pursued me or sent me things or noticed what I like.
The guy never made anything feel chosen.
It’s kind of like we just let things happen and dealt with whatever came next.
The truth is, when I finally left, I felt a huge flood of relief.
“What are you asking?”
“I’m asking you to stop running long enough to find out if this is worth it.” His eyes search mine.
“You don’t do serious.”
“I didn’t.” His jaw tightens. “Then I met you.”
The honesty undoes something in my chest. Because he doesn’t hedge or soften it. He says what he means like he builds things… solid, intentional, meant to last. Unlike my ex.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he and his wife were trying to get pregnant… years ago. I can’t give that to him. I don’t know how he would feel about surrogacy, which is the most certain path to motherhood. And I think I want that.
“Give me time to catch up to where you are?” I hear myself say.
A flash of excitement crosses his face. “I can absolutely do that, Doc. I have a feeling you’re worth the wait.”
Her next words surprise me, which isn’t easy to do. “I have a feeling you’re worth the wait too.”