Not You Again

Chapter 1

I spend way too much time underneath brides’ skirts.

It’s humid and scratchy under here as I search for the source of the mysterious ripping sound among layers and layers of tulle. When I find the culprit, I dig through my sparkly clutch on the tile floor between my legs for a needle and thread.

I’m getting too damn old for this. My knees ache, nothing between them and ceramic tile except the layer of chiffon from my own skirts. My bodice bites into the skin under my arms as I shift my weight forward to work on the tear.

Just as I have the needle lined up to spear the edges of the tulle together, the bride shifts her weight in her stilettos. The needle misses its mark and stabs directly into my fingertip. I let out a curse, sucking my finger into my mouth.

“Bonnie,” my best friend’s voice says soothingly outside my tulle prison, “I need you to hold still while Andie works, okay?”

“Sorry.” She shifts her weight again. Bonnie Mae is the oldest daughter to Beau Davenport and the heiress to a biscuits and gravy empire. I wish I was kidding. She saw my designs on TikTok and had to have me design her perfect wedding dress. “I didn’t ruin anything, did I?”

Heidi makes a show of raising her voice so I can hear her clearly underneath all these skirts. “What’s the prognosis, Andie?”

I remove my aching finger from my lips and reply from under Bonnie’s skirts, “You tore three of the tulle underlays.”

Bonnie swears, but I send a silent thanks to whoever is up there listening that she hadn’t torn the hem of the overlay she’d insisted on being beaded with Swarovski crystals.

No matter how many times I explain to a bride that wearing a couture dress means that it’s all handsewn and takes time to perfect, they always, always want a last-minute change. As charming as Bonnie is, she’s no exception to the rule. I was in my studio until three in the morning for a solid week trying to get this hem right after she made the last-minute request.

She did the damage to the underlayers during photographs after the ceremony. So here I am, babysitting both bride and dress for the night. When a bride pays ten thousand dollars for a handmade dress, they expect the highest level of service. That includes an onsite seamstress, and as my business consists of me, myself, and I, I often find myself on my knees under skirts as I take care of any dress emergencies that come up.

The rest of the wedding emergencies are up to Heidi to solve. As one of Atlanta’s most sought-after wedding planners, she can whisk away any and all wedding day mischief with a swipe on the tablet I know she has tucked into her Balenciaga bag.

Right now, Heidi’s holding Bonnie still while I finish up with the tulle. The toes of her Jimmy Choos peek from underneath the front of Bonnie’s skirts.

I finish whipstitching the last layer of tulle closed and sever the thread with my teeth before tucking everything back into my bag. I bite back a groan as I maneuver out from under the skirts as gracefully as I can manage in my floor-length gown. Part of being a personal seamstress at one of these weddings is that I absolutely cannot look like I’m here as staff.

I smooth Bonnie’s skirts back down, double- and triple-checking for any damage to the top layer of the design. If she has a single bead or crystal missing, it’s my job to notice and to fix it immediately. If she loves her dress and experience enough, she’ll recommend me to her dearest friends when it comes time for them to get married.

And with a little luck, I might stay in business.

Determining nothing else is awry, I grip the marble counter in the bathroom and hoist myself off the ground, straightening my own dress as I stand.

I toss my clutch on the counter and tell Bonnie, “Good as new.”

“Shit, you don’t think we spent too much time in here, do you?” Bonnie asks in her southern drawl, pulling a flask from her skirt pocket. I never design a wedding dress without pockets, because there’s no earthly reason why not.

Heidi gives me a wry look over Bonnie’s shoulder as she takes a swig of whatever’s in her flask. Southern brides are all smiles and hospitality, but you can always count on bourbon being nearby. “It’s your day,” Heidi tells her as she recaps the flask. “You will take the time you need. Besides, I made sure the band started up during cocktail hour. I doubt anyone’s noticed how long we’ve been in here.”

Bonnie tucks the flask back into her pocket and takes a deep breath, shaking out her shoulders on the exhale. Getting her game face on.

Heidi grips her upper arms. “You look beautiful, and your dress is perfect. Your groom is waiting outside the ballroom for your grand entrance, okay?”

Bonnie nods and gives us both a smile before swooshing away in her gown.

As soon as the heavy bathroom door closes behind her, both Heidi and I slouch our shoulders and lean on the counter. She smooths a stray hair into her perfect French twist and hands me my drink. It’s just club soda with a wedge of lime in it—we’re working, after all—but I’m grateful anyway.

“For someone who doesn’t believe in love, you sure do make some fairy-tale dresses.” Heidi clinks the rim of her glass to mine before taking a sip.

I cover a scoff with a sip of my drink. I feel relief in my raw fingertips and chafed palms at the coolness of the glass. It’s soothing and goddamn necessary, because I just know that beaded hem is too heavy. It’ll get caught underfoot soon enough, and we’ll be back here with me trying to pull everything back together.

If only holding my business together was as simple as fixing a hem.

Heidi sets her drink down and rummages through her own bag. “Did Clover Callaway change her mind?”

“No.” I press the cool glass to my forehead. “Apparently her fiancé sleeping with the maid of honor is not only cliché but unforgivable.” And a huge blow to my finances.

Atlanta Ballet’s prima ballerina Clover canceled her order after local gossip blogs caught wind of the scandal.

“Damn.” Heidi knows the lurch that cancellation left me in. “Have you made much progress with your designs for Fashion Week?”

I shake my head. My designer’s block has arrived like a bridesmaid to a karaoke bachelorette—loud and eternally off-key. The timing is the actual worst, as it’s my first year showing in Atlanta Fashion Week, and I wiped out my bank account purchasing materials to create my line, counting on the payout for the delivery of Clover’s dress. And now it will never come. “My muse is a fickle bitch.”

Heidi snorts and pulls out a Band-Aid. She gestures for my hand and finds the fingertip I stabbed earlier. We’ve been friends since we met at a bridal expo five years ago. She had a burgeoning wedding planning business, and I wasn’t much more than a seamstress at the time, working with a large bridal chain to alter dresses. But as her business took off, I struck out on my own—so came the benefit of sharing clients and providing for things they didn’t know they needed yet.

In five years, I went from working for a bridal house for a pittance to designing my own dresses. Until the future Mr. Callaway sampled the maid of honor before the ceremony, I was on a roll, landing some of Atlanta’s elite brides. Now wedding season is here, and I cleared my calendar for Clover, whose dress is now moot. If I can’t seduce my muse in time to wow investors at Fashion Week, my once-sparkling business will be underwater before the next wedding season.

“Please, tell me your week has been better than mine,” I say as Heidi finishes wrapping my finger in the Band-Aid.

“As a matter of fact,” her lips curl into a devious grin, “I had a very interesting week.”

“Don’t leave me hanging.” I shift in my heels. My heart aches to be back in my studio, barefoot, in an old Georgia State T-shirt, eating lo mein and sketching designs on my tablet. As if I’ll magically break through my designer’s block and use all the time I blocked for Clover’s dress to design something so innovative, investors will have no choice but to line up for a piece of Andrea Dresser Designs.

Right.

“A scout from Optimax came by my office.” Heidi’s fingers fly over her phone in response to it buzzing on the counter. When I raise a questioning brow, she waves it off. “Crystal’s got it under control.”

God, I need an assistant like Crystal. And a miracle.

“Are they going to shoot some sort of wedding planning series or something?” The publicity alone would be a great opportunity for her.

She shakes her head and takes another sip of her drink. “I know you’re, like, living under a rock in that studio, but—”

“It’s a nice rock.” I roll my eyes. I have a wall of windows that shows Atlanta’s glittering skyline from sunset to sunrise. And I would know because I’ve been up until two AM every night this week trying to beat my muse into submission.

“You live where you work,” Heidi scolds. She’s right. My bedroom is in the loft above the studio where I meet brides and make gowns. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I like the commute.” I smirk. She has to drive in Atlanta rush hour to get to her downtown offices; I just have to go downstairs. And it keeps my living expenses at rock bottom.

“Whatever.” She waves it off. “I know that if it’s not in a bridal magazine or on BrideTok, you don’t see it.”

I don’t react to the dig. Mostly because it’s true.

“Optimax is the one that owns the Vibe channel,” she explains, letting our bickering drop. “They’re filming the next season of First Look at Forever here in Atlanta.”

My brows draw together in confusion. I don’t own a TV, so I’m not quite sure what show she’s talking about. I do practically live under a rock. Between designing gowns, attending the weddings as personal seamstress to the brides, and trying to design an entire separate line to show at Fashion Week, there’s not much room left in my life for anything else.

“It’s that show where matchmakers arrange marriages?” She raises a brow at me.

I shake my head. It still isn’t ringing a bell. “Why were they at your offices?”

“They need someone to plan the weddings this season.” She shrugs like it isn’t a big deal to be recruited by TV producers.

“How many?” I’m already doing math in my head.

“Three to six. All on the same day.”

My jaw drops. Heidi is some kind of organization wizard and multitasking goddess, but six weddings in one day?

She laughs at my incredulousness. “I think you should meet the producers.”

I scoff, tapping one of my fingers nervously against my glass. As much as I need the paycheck, it’s not like I could design up to six dresses for brides I haven’t even met yet, make them to my level of perfection, then babysit them all on the same day while brides drank too much and tore their hems on stilettos and spilled wine on their bodices.

Could I?

“I meant as a candidate for matchmaking,” Heidi scolds.

My breath catches at the idea. “How strong is that drink?”

She laughs again, taking another sip. “Do you know the premise of the show?”

“I live under a rock, remember?”

“Perfect strangers marry, then they have eight weeks together to decide: stay together or walk away.”

“Why in the hell would I do that to myself?” I already know marriage is never on my to-do list, let alone in front of a TV audience. And especially not if all it’s bound to do is crash and burn. My mom’s been married enough times; I know exactly how this will play out.

“Because if you choose to divorce at the end, the show pays you a hundred grand for your trouble.” She sips on her drink and shrugs one shoulder. “Each.”

“A hundred grand?” I ask quietly. That would cover the materials I purchased for Fashion Week, pay for the models, and then some. I might not even need an investor right away. “But why would anyone stay married if you get paid to divorce?”

Heidi leans closer, raising her eyebrows like she knows a big, juicy secret. “It’s hidden in the contracts. Listed under payment for damages.” She leans back against the counter and shrugs. “They let me speak with some brides from last season, and one of them let it slip. Apparently, the show has six figures set aside for each cast member, just in case. It’s probably to avoid a lawsuit or something.”

I frown.

“I’m just saying, it’s there if you want it. I know how you feel about business loans.”

I bring my glass to my lips to help swallow the bitter pill of my mother’s unfilled promise to invest in my business. It went out the window with her last marriage. A six-figure paycheck that I can get myself sounds appealing. Eventually I mumble, “It’s an option.”

Heidi gives me a perfunctory nod. “You’re a catch; they’d definitely cast you. And we both know you’re not going to fall in love.”

It’s true, but something behind my rib cage twists at the cool statement of fact. No way in hell am I going to tie myself to a person for life. It’s only license for them to take what they want, then cast you out when they’re done with you.

I’m fine on my own.

Or I will be when I finally get through my designer’s block and come up with a theme that’s new and interesting, or even just a little unexpected at this point. Fashion Week looms like an omen in the not-so-distant future. I murmur into my glass, “A hundred grand.”

Heidi snorts and rolls her eyes. “Think about it, okay? At the very least you get an all-expense-paid vacation, and God knows you need one of those.”

She whisks out the bathroom door, leaving me to ruminate.