Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Parker
I’d never felt more ridiculous in my life. Standing in front of at least twelve mirrors, my mother and Lauren were clinging to each other with one hand and a box of tissues with the other.
“You look so beautiful, my darling,” my mum said through her half sobs.
“You’ve found your dress,” Lauren said, dabbing her eyes. “It’s perfect.”
How was I going to break it to them that I’d rather march naked down the aisle than wear this meringue of a dress?
“Can we see it with the veil?” Lauren said to the sales assistant, Shayna.
“I’m not wearing a veil,” I said. I’d only agreed to try on this ridiculous dress because I thought they’d both agree it was over the top and awful.
“Don’t be silly, darling. This is your wedding.”
“Exactly. My wedding, and I don’t want to wear a veil. I certainly don’t want to wear this dress. The whole point in having a small wedding at a registry office is that it’s low key. This”—I swept my hands down my body—“is very high key.”
My mother looked like I slapped her and instantly, I felt terrible. She thought this was the real deal and was just trying to make things nice.
Lauren cleared her throat and stood. “If you don’t like this dress then we must find you something you do like. There are lots of beautiful dresses here. It’s the best bridal shop in London. What kind of thing did you have in mind?”
“Just something . . . less.”
“Okay,” Lauren said, nodding at Shayna to come and help us. “We’d like something a little more understated. What about a Monique Lhuillier without a train? Something that looks more like evening wear?”
The assistant set to work going through the racks of gowns, pushing the dresses apart to find more options.
“I’m going to change,” I said.
“We’ll find something you’re going to love,” Lauren called after me. “Don’t you worry.”
Thank goodness for Lauren. If she hadn’t been here, I would have either ended up wearing this poufy gown or we would have left the shop and my mother and I would have never spoken again.
I shut the dressing room door and pulled out my phone. There was a message from Tristan asking how the dress shopping was going.
I replied saying that I wanted to shoot myself.
My finger hovered over the send button. After my conversation with Sutton earlier, I really wanted to know what Tristan’s deal was.
He was gorgeous and successful and thirty-four—I couldn’t expect him to be celibate.
But over the last few weeks, he’d never mentioned anyone.
Neither of us had. Not to each other anyway.
If I was going to be made a fool of in front of my friends and family, I had a right to know. I deleted the message and wrote out another.
Are you single?
Then I deleted it. Too many loopholes in that one.
Are you seeing anyone?
Deleted. Way too vague.
Are you sleeping with anyone?
It was concise, direct, and the answer would tell me exactly what I wanted to know.
I pressed send and chucked my phone on the bench next to my handbag. If he replied at all, it wouldn’t be any time soon.
I’d just begun to fold my arms around my back, origami style, to unhook the dress, when my phone beeped. It was Tristan.
Not even with my fiancée.
Warmth and relief swirled in my stomach.
I knew we had a deal. For both of us, getting married was about getting my trust fund.
Except there was a part of me—two percent, perhaps three—that couldn’t help but think that the things I felt during our two kisses the day of our engagement party were .
. . real. I’d never felt anything close to the heat, chemistry and connection I’d felt when Tristan had his hands in my hair and his lips on mine.
Sutton talking about fireworks was just her typical hyperbole, but her description underplayed how it felt to be kissed by Tristan.
Three-point-five percent of me hoped that he’d felt something real too.
I didn’t respond to the message. Tristan wasn’t a liar. If he said he wasn’t sleeping with anyone, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone.
Just as I’d freed myself from my dress, my phone buzzed again.
Tristan again.
Unfortunately.
Heat chased up my spine. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone? Or his fiancée?”
Was Tristan Dubrow flirting with me?
I tried to bite back a smile but before I had a chance to consider my response, Shayna knocked at the dressing room door and swept in, holding an armful of gowns which she placed on the freestanding rack in the changing room.
“These are more popular with our brides having more intimate affairs,” she said.
My phone buzzed again. Was that Tristan?
Despite not being a real bride, I started to feel a little giddy at the thought that my fiancé was messaging me.
“Shall we start with this one?” She held up a strapless satin gown.
It was pretty and a lot more subtle than the last dress I tried on. I just wasn’t sure it was me.
“What else do we have?” My phone buzzed again.
“Now your mum and her friend aren’t here, how about you tell me exactly what you’re looking for?”
I sighed, not quite sure how to put it into words. “I don’t know. Something a little less bridal?”
Shayna frowned and then held up her finger. “Give me a minute.” She hurried out like she’d just had a flash of inspiration. The moment she left, I grabbed my phone.
A message from Tristan.
Are you sleeping with anyone?
I typed out a reply. Not even my fiancé. Unfortunately. And then I deleted it. I might have misread what he was saying. If I hadn’t, then flirting with Tristan felt a little like playing with fire. And I wasn’t looking to get burned. Instead I replied, Not unless you count the cows on my pajamas.
As I pressed send, a second one came in from Tristan.
Sounds weird, but it would feel like cheating.
My stomach tilted. I knew exactly what he meant.
Yes, this entire palaver was a ruse to get hold of my trust fund, but we were in this together.
We had each other’s backs. I shouldn’t have even asked the question of Tristan.
He wouldn’t be sleeping with someone else when he was engaged to me, even if our engagement was just for show. He wasn’t that kind of man.
I sent my reply. I know what you mean.
He responded right away. I’m missing your cooking here in New York. You’ll have to give me lessons when I’m back.
Shayna knocked on the door, holding up the first dress that I’d been excited to try on since I arrived.
I nodded. “Let’s try it.”
It was cream silk, with a high neck and midi-length skirt.
Shayna unbuttoned the back and held it out for me to step into. “We call this our skater skirt wedding dress. Being honest, most of our brides choose this as a second dress—one to put on when the dancing starts—but I think it might be just what you’re looking for.”
It was simple and elegant, and the fabric felt soft next to my skin. It didn’t feel that different to putting on a dress for cocktails with Sutton.
“Gosh, you look like a forties pin-up girl. The neckline is perfect with your blunt bob and I could see you with just a flower behind one ear, no veil.” She finished buttoning me up and turned me to face the mirror.
I exhaled. I looked normal, but slightly better. “I love it,” I said.
“Think your fiancé would approve?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It’s very me. I think as long as I’m happy, he will be too.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Sounds like you picked a good one,” she replied.
“No complaints so far.” I twirled slightly in the mirror and the dress rose up.
“It fits like it was made for you,” Shayna said. “I’m not sure we’re going to need many alterations, if any.”
Double points for this dress. “We’re getting married in ten days, so if I can buy off the rack, even better.”
Shayna gave a laugh which was half-deranged panic and half relief. “Looks like this is the one. We’ve just got to convince the two ladies out there now.”
“Can’t I just buy it and tell them it’s decided?” I asked.
“We can, but in my experience—and I’ve been doing this a long time—if you go out there, delighted with your dress, they’ll come around. And that’s much easier than enduring any bad feeling because they weren’t involved.”
I sighed. It was good advice, though I knew the next half an hour was going to be spent trying to convince them that this was the right dress. It was time I’d rather spend texting my fiancé.