Chapter 22 Lexie #2
“Isn’t this stunning?” the assistant says, and tells us all about the Italian designer.
“Yes, it really is,” Theo says, digging his phone from his pocket and angling it toward me.
“Do we really need to film this?” I ask, unable to keep the plea out of my voice.
“What a wonderful idea!” the shop assistant chimes in. “That way your fiancée can see all the options for herself.”
There’s a brief pause before Theo responds. “Ah, yes. Anna will enjoy seeing these.” He lifts the phone up slightly. “Lexie, would you mind turning so I can get the full effect.”
I push a smile through clenched teeth. “I think that might be a little difficult with the… volume of this dress.”
The most shit-eating grin crosses his face, and he does a twirl motion with his finger. “What the bride wants, the bride gets. And she will definitely want to see how this dress spins.”
Who knew this moody, brooding man could be such a comedian.
“That’s right dear,” the assistant says as she helps move me in a clunky, uncoordinated circle. “We should never question the client.” She moves to my ear. “Especially ones like these.”
I mouth I hate you to Theo.
The bastard laughs.
One hour passes, then two. Theo takes pictures and videos, I twirl, curtsey, and yawn in between dresses. Whoever thought trying on dresses is fun is insane. I’m tired and growing crankier by the minute.
I step into the fifth, sixth, maybe hundredth dress at this point, and tug up the strapless gown. With zippers and fabric and satin-ribbon corset binding, this one is the most beautiful, yet most cumbersome, and within two minutes, I’m a complete mess. I call for the assistant.
No response. Cool. I’m in a satin and tulle prison and she’s nowhere to be found.
I poke my head out from the velvet curtain at Theo sitting on the sofa. “Hey, can you find the assistant? I can’t get this thing on, and my patience is hovering around zero.”
He lifts from the couch. “I can help.”
Oh God, nope. The zipper on the back isn’t even up and I’m very, very aware of the breeze on my lower back and most likely the triangle back panel of my lace thong peeking out. “Can you just grab her? Please. This thing has about a thousand buttons and has to be laced like a corset.”
He marches to me. “I said, I’ll do it.”
Jesus. That tone.
I step outside of the dressing room, towards the mirror, holding my boobs so they don’t pop out.
He stands behind me and everything stops.
The air thins, heats. His breath hitches, my pulse increases.
He drags his gaze down my naked back creating the same feather-like sensation as if his fingers were trailing me.
Warmth invades me, rushing down my spine, and reaching my toes. I stand under the soft lights, waiting, breathless, watching in the mirror his every move. He shouldn’t touch me. But I want him to. He sweeps my hair to the side. The touch is a whisper. It’s nothing and yet tingles fly through me.
He should pull back. Step away. Move from this space because I want more.
But instead of dropping his hands, his fingers graze from my shoulder to the top of my arm, I gasp.
This is so wrong. So, so wrong, but I ease my eyes closed, drinking in the way his touch makes my skin sing.
I shouldn’t lean into his touch. I can’t lean into the touch.
But just for a brief moment, I let myself imagine…
Moments like this are another little slice of a dream-like, soft-focused fantasy in my grainy world where I get to pretend for a moment that things are different.
I feel his fingers tug at the fabric—zip, then the slow thread of ribbon through each loop.
Every movement stretches the moment, the silence thick with an energy I know he feels too.
In the mirror, I watch him pull the ribbons taut, his thumbs brushing my bare skin and sending warmth flooding through me.
I can’t take this—standing here in this dress, with him so close. My face burns. My body aches, needy, restless, straining not to press back into him. Shame stirs somewhere beneath it all, a shadow waiting to surface—but for now, it’s swallowed by the heat.
When he finishes cinching the last binding, he doesn’t drop his hands like I need him to. Please, let go. I’m not strong enough to fight this.
Our eyes lock in the mirror. Time stalls. Does he feel this, too? Or is this torment mine alone?
My heartbeat thuds against my throat. His hands slide up my back and goosebumps erupt on my skin. I should walk away. Right now. Just one simple step forward and break this moment.
But I don’t.
He scoops my hair away from my shoulder to cascade down my back and I hear him sharply inhale. He peeks back at the mirror and when his heated gaze locks on mine again, he expels a soft breath, whispering close to my ear. “You look beautiful.”
The words land gently, almost tender—and somehow that makes them hurt more, pricking tears behind my eyelids.
I do look pretty in this lacy, off-the-shoulder, smooth-silhouette dress. The soft cream color brings out the red in my hair, the green in my eyes, my freckles. But my heart sinks—this dress isn’t for me.
“Don’t,” I utter, but it’s half-hearted.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even fucking move. Those eyes are staring at me with so much intensity that my hands tremble. And then, he slides his fingertips down the fabric at my ribcage to my waist.
My eyes flutter closed.
This is all an illusion. This moment, right here, is fake. I’m not really trying on wedding gowns and he’s not really picturing what I’ll look like walking down the aisle.
I can’t breathe.
“Sorry about that,” the woman’s voice sounds from around the corner.
My entire body stiffens, Theo takes a step back.
“A customer stopped by for a pick-up.” Her bracelets bang with a metallic tink as she clasps her hands. “Well, this is absolutely stunning. And fits like a glove, doesn’t it? This is definitely a contender, but we’ve still got more to try on.”
I sigh.
The next dress is buttery soft, the strapless feminine sweetheart neckline makes a deep cleavage, and the cinched waist with the gentle, ballgown silhouette makes me feel like a princess. If I ever get married, I’m going with something like this.
If.
Every second I spend trying on dresses for the bride of the man I’m slowly losing my mind over makes those dreams disappear like a feather in a windstorm.
God, help me. Is it the low lighting? This dance we’re doing while dress shopping? Or could I actually be falling for Theo?
“What do you think?” she asks, turning to Theo who is sitting on the sofa, with a deep frown. “Dr. Astor? Do you like this one?”
He doesn’t even respond.