Chapter Nine
I’m off work Saturday, but my body doesn’t let me sleep in. I jolt awake at seven, covered in sweat, remembering last night’s kiss.
I brush my fingers over my lips, trying to conjure it back. It was so good. So dang good.
I could tell myself that kiss was all part of the game …
that I was just being strategic … but I’d be lying.
I was actually into it. Which is wrong in all kinds of ways, and probably says terrible things about me.
My penchant for interesting people and their forearms wasn’t supposed to override all systems, dammit! Freaking lizard brain.
I cover my face in my hands and groan.
Of course I’m still committed to taking Liam down, if he is indeed a serial killer. But the other thing I’ve learned about myself over the years is, once I get turned on by someone, it’s nearly impossible to turn that attraction off, adding a very annoying, very complicated side to all of this.
At least I showed some common sense once I got home around eleven, because even though I was extremely tempted to unearth my vibrator from the depths of my messy nightstand and replay that satisfied sound Liam made over and over until I got it out of my head, I resisted the urge.
Instead, I emailed the restaurant group that owns Wine I do have some going-out clothes from years ago when I used to go clubbing with Zoe – but teensy-weensy pleather skirts and sequined tube tops from Forever 21 aren’t my thing any more (and were they ever, really?).
My remaining college clothes amount to jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts.
The only other fashion phase of my life – the receptionist years – has been all button-down tops and ugly business pants.
I half-heartedly push hangers back and forth for a few more minutes just in case something incredible is hiding in there … and that’s a nope.
‘Well, shit,’ I finally mutter, suddenly and irrationally angry at my closet for being such a downer. Or, more likely, I’m the downer, and my closet has been reflecting that. For years.
Ugh. I hate that that actually makes sense.
Yoga pants, tank and flannel shirt it is.
*
I burst into the bridal shop ten minutes late, my still-damp hair pulled into a top knot.
‘Hi, hi, sorry, I’m late for my fitting—’ I say to the chic woman whose name I suddenly can’t remember – ah yes, Siobhan – when a bright voice cries my name.
‘Margot! You’re here!’ It’s George, rushing toward me in a cloud of blinding white satin and tulle.
‘Hi – oof—’ I say as she slams into me in the most ferocious hug of all time. She holds me tight, then jerks me from side to side with a rhythmic ‘mmm-mm-mmm’ sound.
‘Be careful!’ I laugh to cover my sudden surge of emotion. ‘Your dress!’ We pull back, hands linked, and I take her in. ‘George – just, wow. You look so beautiful.’
The dress is stunning, with a smooth, strapless bodice perfectly contoured to her torso, an exuberant princess-style skirt, and a glammed-out rhinestone-and-pearl belt circling her slim waist. But it’s not just the stunning dress that’s making me emotional.
It’s the radiant halo of happiness that surrounds her. Love looks good on her.
‘Margot? I have your dress waiting in the fitting area,’ says Siobhan.
Five minutes later, I’m in the pea soup monstrosity, standing in front of a three-way mirror while Siobhan pins and measures.
George has too good of a heart to have made us all look this bad on purpose, but oof.
The shade of green seems to have been expressly designed to make me look like my skin died months prior and only continues to be draped across my bones as a courtesy. I should know. I work with dead people.
‘We’ll have to take it in quite a bit,’ Siobhan says with a frown as she pins the sides.
‘Oh … OK.’ I don’t remember it being this loose on me – I guess I’ve lost weight since I ordered this size. It seems a little silly to try to go to the trouble and expense of altering it when it’s going to look bad no matter what, but I sense that Siobhan – not to mention George – might not agree.
Siobhan finishes up and I change back into my clothes, emerging from the dressing room just as George is also coming out of hers, back in her normal clothes – an A-line summer dress in a bold hot pink print with a little yellow cardigan on top.
‘We’ll have this ready for pickup next week!’ says Siobhan, whisking my dress toward the front of the store. ‘The big day is almost here!’
‘Crazy,’ says George.