Chapter 22 Lexie
My co-workers are bustling around me, wrapped up in their work, completely oblivious to how my life is spinning out of control.
I’m trying so hard to focus on the specs of the Victorian home where the wedding will be held, but everything blurs.
Instead of focusing, I keep manically swiping through my phone on my endless search for a woman in New York named Olivia.
I can’t stop thinking about that name since I saw it in Theo’s office a week ago. I’ve spent countless hours online chasing every possible lead on this woman. So far, nothing.
But I will find out who she is.
The other thing I’ll do? Stop obsessing over Theodore Astor, why he hasn’t contacted me since he drove me back home, and regain control over my body. It’s wrong, sick, and I hate myself for it.
My phone rings and panic flares, a ridiculous flash of fear that he can read my mind. Relief washes over me when I see the caller ID. Annabelle. I paste on a smile I know will carry through my voice and answer. “Hi Annabelle, lovely to hear from you.”
“Lexie, we have a major fucking problem.”
Shit. That’s the sound of a woman with bad news.
My stomach knots and my mind races ahead of itself.
Theo told her. Fuck. He told her everything and now she’s calling to fire me.
I’m going to lose my raise, my promotion, probably my goddamn job.
And the worst part? I wouldn’t even blame her.
I brought this on myself and she has every right to cut me loose.
“My dress is terrible,” she says.
My head stops spinning. “Wait, what?”
“It just arrived for alterations and it’s nothing like the pictures online.
The fabric will make me break out in hives, alterations cannot fix the monstrosity of the cardboard corset, the tulle…
” She doesn’t take a breath as she lists everything wrong with the dress and how she doesn’t have a moment to go dress-shopping because of her grandma.
“I need you to go pick one out for me.”
My body convulses into a weird choking laugh until I gain composure. “I can’t pick out your dress. This is the most important thing you’ll ever wear in your life. You do not want to trust this with a stranger.”
“You are not a stranger and I implicitly trust you.” Those words shoot a dagger through me.
She trusts me. God, I hate myself. Does she know that I’ve touched myself every night this past week picturing her fiancé’s hands on me?
I’m sick. I’m so sick. Tonight, I’m looking up confessional times at St. John’s and getting rid of this demon.
Annabelle assures me that she’s “not picky”, and as long as the fabric doesn’t feel like shit, it’ll be fine.
I reluctantly agree, while kindly reminding her that I can’t try anything on for her without stating the obvious that my curves, full boobs and ass are totally the opposite of her “reminiscent of a ’90s runway model” physique.
She sends me her measurements, I call around the city for a shop that has an available appointment, and by four p.m. I’m in a cab on my way to Brooklyn.
I contemplate sending Theo a text and letting him know but decide against it. Distance is the best decision right now.
At the private shop, I buzz the intercom and a sharply dressed gray-haired woman with a tight bun and bright pink lips welcomes me inside the softly lit, plush-carpeted boutique, and introduces herself. “We are so grateful that the bride chose us to find her the perfect dress!”
“Thanks so much for squeezing me in. We are grateful for your help.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
Is it, though? I’ve been around these places long enough to know that wedding-dress shops rarely care about accommodating bridal emergencies.
They’re the type of shop that turns people away without a six-month-in-advance appointment.
Funny how dropping the Barlowe name along with the required NDA opened the doors.
“I can’t say we’ve ever had a planner try on the bride’s dresses before,” the woman says as she escorts me past the main showroom.
Inside the private fitting area, floor-length mirrors, plush sofas, and marble tables with elaborate floral arrangements surround us.
“But thankfully we have the bride’s measurements, though the sizing might be tricky. ”
Oof. Thank God I love my body, or this little spitfire here might just get a throat punch. “I’m not trying any on. I’m just going to look.”
“Okay, then,” she says. “Oh, I forgot to let you know that you have someone waiting for you. He’s in the back.”
Shit. She doesn’t need to say who it is—it couldn’t be anyone else.
I don’t need this. Not now. Earlier today, I was terrified his bride would find out about us.
Now I’m fighting the stupid flutter in my stomach at the thought of being near him again.
It’s so fucking wrong. He’s getting married.
I’m planning his wedding. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s developed a crush on a client before, but have they felt this?
“Hey!” Theo says, with a wide smile and even wider arms. He pulls me in for a quick, professional hug, and ends it with a pat on the back. Clearly whatever happened last week did not affect him at all.
“Wow, this is a… nice surprise,” I say, although it’s actually a terrible one. “I didn’t know you’d be coming here. In fact, you shouldn’t be as it’s bad luck.”
“I figured it’d be a lot of pressure to find the right dress for Anna without a second opinion from the one who knows her best.”
I hate when he has a point.
“Let’s get started, shall we? Why don’t you two have a look at the displays and let me know if you need any help.” The woman walks away, leaving me and Theo alone in this too-quiet space.
We fall into quiet concentration, combing through the options as the tension that hit me when I first saw Theo slowly dissipates.
I scoop out a dress to hang on a hook for a better view.
“I heard you talked to my mom yesterday.” Yes, I’m absolutely prodding for intel because my mom didn’t offer much.
The morning after her urgent care visit, she mentioned how Theo stopped by the aftercare unit after reviewing her labs.
Turns out that she was dehydrated, severely deficient in Vitamin D, and had developed hypothyroidism along with a nasty ear infection.
All unpleasant, but thankfully nothing life-threatening.
Yesterday was her follow-up appointment.
And no matter how many questions I fired at her, she remained tightlipped.
“You know even if I did, I can’t tell you,” he says. “Patient–doctor confidentiality.”
“Seriously?”
“I take my doctor oath very seriously,” he says, not joking.
I pull out another dress, but I’ve lost focus. Finally, I let out a shaky breath. “I, um, I didn’t properly thank you for last week,” I say, glossing over the fact of why I didn’t thank him. I catch his eye. “Really. My mom is my everything, and what you did for her…”
I feel the beginning of a tremble in my chin and I suck my lips into my mouth. He inches towards me and lays both hands on my shoulders, dipping his head to catch my gaze. “It’s nothing, Lexie. It’s the equivalent of what you’re doing, right now, as part of your job.”
It’s so much more, and I think he knows.
I’ve been trying to separate the pieces that make up Theo.
He’s like a fucked-up divinity triangle.
Three separate entities all captured within the same person.
Theo—the guy I’m sitting with right now making me blush.
Theo—Annabelle’s fiancé. Theo—the devil I’m determined to destroy.
A soft grin forms and he gives my shoulders a friendly squeeze before he drops his touch.
“But you’ll have to talk to your mom about The Bachelorette season six. She is very, very wrong on who she thinks should’ve been the winner.”
I smile and continue swiping through dresses. I soon discover that Theo and I have surprisingly similar tastes. Simple lines, minimal fabric, A-frame. I tug out another dress and stand back, eyeing the cut.
Theo steps behind me. “Since you’re on the clock, I want you to try some of these on.”
“Ah. No. That’s a hard pass.”
He lifts a brow. “It wasn’t a question.”
I feel heat warm my cheeks. “I’m not trying on dresses. Annabelle and I are totally different sizes, it’s after five, it’ll take hours, and I’d really like you to revisit my first statement that it’s a hard fucking pass.”
He stays silent.
“Look,” I say, gritting my teeth, because really? “I will do a lot of things for you guys. Getting into a wedding dress is not on that list.”
He crosses his arms. And stares. “Do I need to let Sydney know you’re refusing to help your client?”
“And do I need to remind you that you sound like a little bitch when you threaten to whine to my boss?” I hate that a smile cracks through. “God you’re the worst. Truly.”
He glances behind me and his lips quirk into a very slow, very diabolic grin. “On that note… I think you start with that one.”
When he points behind me, I turn and my mouth drops. “You cannot be serious.”
He slides back, his grin growing even wider. “Oh, I’m very serious.” Then he shouts out for the shop assistant’s help, explaining that there’s been a change of plan.
“Which one do you want to see first?” she asks.
Theo’s eyes glint with trouble. “You have such an extraordinary collection, that it’s hard to know which to choose. But, I think we start with that one.”
The woman’s face brightens—no doubt at the dollar signs attached to the dress. “Wonderful choice. Lexie, why don’t you get into the dressing room. There’s a robe on the hanger, and I’ll be right in.”
Twenty minutes later, after a lot of tugging, scratches, and a few swear words, I take a long look in the floor-length mirror.
Dear God, it’s hideous. With so much puff, tulle, and fabric, I look like a twelve-tiered wedding cake.
When I step out of the room lugging this fifty-pound monstrosity, a very irritating twinkle flashes in Theo’s eyes.