Wiping my now-clammy palms against my jeans, I get automated in each of my movements. Pants off and folded, top and bra hung on the gold hook on the wall.
Then, I lift the beautiful silk dress from the garment bag.
The zipper is barely audible as I lower it, taking care not to accidentally catch the delicate material against anything while Istep into it. One look, a single second’s glance, is what I allow myself to see—the gown a younger me would’ve picked for my own wedding day. A style I love that only a best friend would have known to pick as the perfect bridesmaid’s outfit. The finest spaghetti straps fall away into a gentle cowl neck before the silhouette tapers in at the waist, fitting snugly against the curve of my hips before waterfalling to the ground.
If only I hadn’t dreamed of myself in something similar all those years ago.
I call Andrea into the fitting room, sticking my head out from behind the curtain in the hope Marcus will be, I don’t know, waiting curbside.
I have no such luck.
Forcing the corners of my lips upward at her delight in the near-perfect fit, I nod at the adjustments she tells me need to be made. Holding still becomes a battle of wills as she releases my hair from its messy bun atop my head, rearranging the mass of waves to her liking. The delicate picture in the mirror has me wishing for a red lip or chunky boot—something, anything of who I am now—to make me remember just how strong I can be.
Instead, I make my way out from behind the curtain to the small podium, trying not to show the same delicate vulnerability as my bare feet and naked lips.
The intensity of his eyes on me hits me like lightning, my spine straightening even as everything inside me becomes supple. The impact he has on me is as annoying as it is arousing.
The slit cut up the right side of the dress allows for a deceptive amount of movement and makes an appearance with the length of my strides. I can feel the instant he notices the skin of my thigh on display, and I slow my pace. Finally perched in front of the floor-length mirrors, I avoid my own reflection, instead seeking out Marcus. My self-preservation skills aren’t strong enough to keep me from doing so, and Cara seems to havedisappeared with his suit jacket, leaving me with his undivided attention.
He sits in a typically manly fashion, feet planted apart, thighs splayed, torso leaning forward to where his chin rests upon his palm. One might think he was bored, except for his eyes, which scream anything but boredom.
The space falls into silence as Andrea works, gently lifting and pinning the fabric pooling around my feet, ensuring the fit of her creation is nothing but exquisite.
The entire time, Marcus’s gaze is locked on mine, a silent war waging between us. His thumb rubs against his lower lip as he tracks my every movement through the glass. Saliva pools in my mouth at the image of him, and I want nothing more than for him to bite down on the pad of his thumb.
Whatever he sees on my face has his brows raising and his mouth quirking up in a half-grin.
It’s beyond my control when my lips tilt the same way.
The intensity of the moment is broken as Marcus’s phone rings, and I’m grateful when he gets up to take the call elsewhere.
With his absence, I’m able to breathe easier, and it must be palpable because Andrea asks gently, “Does he really put you on edge that much?”
I’m not shocked by her personal question and grateful for the lack of judgment in the words. “Yes and no,” I reply with a gentle shrug. “It’s been a long time.”
“Since you were together?”
I give her a sad smile in the mirror. “Well, there’s that, but it’s been a longer time since we were friends.”
Weirdly, it’s not terrible to be talking to a stranger about Marcus, about the strange tension constantly between us.
“It probably doesn’t make any difference to you just yet—you’ll need to figure things out for yourself, obviously—but my wife respects the hell out of him. And she doesn’t like anyone.”
I glance behind me just to make sure we’re still alone. “Why does she respect him?”
Andrea looks up to meet my eyes directly, no longer settling for the use of the mirror. “I’d say because, as ruthless as he is in business and as ridiculous as he’s been known to be in his personal life, he hasn’t forgotten how he became so successful. Marcus fought for the things he wanted, and he helps teach a new generation how to do the same. And when they’re struggling to find someone to give them a leg up, he uses his endorsement to make it happen. How the hell do you think I landed an apprentice?” She smiles ruefully.
“How did you meet?” I ask, curious as to how he has gotten this talented woman’s endorsement.
“He helped to create all this.” She gestures around the room. “He was the only builder who really listened to what my vision was for the store and didn’t try and tell me no before we’d even begun.” Andrea looks at me again, this time utilizing our reflections. “He took notes in every meeting and would confirm them with me. He’d even bring a highlighter—I found it very endearing.”
My heart clenches at her words, and I can’t help but remember all the times Marcus watched me as I studied, making notes and highlighting them. This man Andrea speaks of seems in such direct opposition to the Marcus I know. To think of him as someone who stays and fights for what he wants, who lifts others up in the process—it’s a lot to take in, especially being the one thing he hadn’t fought for and had been happy to let go of.
It’s only when Andrea finishes her adjustments and leaves the room that Marcus returns, beginning to unbutton his shirt before he even reaches his fitting room.
I want to ask him about the work he does, about why he works with young people. But transfixed by the skin exposed by the two buttons of his shirt, only a low exhale emerges from my parted lips.
Finally, I make use of my gaping mouth to say, “Andrea seems to think highly of you.”
