"Arabella howdare you—"she began.
"No time." A woman I didn't know snapped her fingers and pointed to a dress that hung on a dress rack in the corner of the room. "You dress; I'll do your hair." She wore black pants and a black T-shirt with an apron like a professional hairdresser, and I noted all the curling irons, combs, and supplies on a vanity in the center of the room. Oops.
"We can't send her out there like that," Sylvia snapped, standing from her chair.
I ignored her, sweeping into the room and going for the dress. It was a nice bridal suite—cream and white tones, lush fabricon the chairs, and beautiful, gauzy drapes that I was sure made for some stunning photography for happy brides. Too bad I was barely a bride and certainly not happy about it.
The dress was enormous. It had three layers of tulle beneath it, and as I ripped off my jacket and then my T-shirt, revealing a faded nude bra, I eyed the layers warily. I would look like a whole bag of frosting in that thing. And as I noted the rows of buttons along the lace back, I thought that maybe fifteen minuteswasn'tenough time to get a dress on my body.
The woman I didn't know—Adeline—was a hair stylist who had apparently been waiting for me for three hours, and she helped me shimmy into the gown. The neckline cut deeply in a V and sat off my shoulders, so I ditched my bra and wiggled into the tight bodice while Adeline quickly buttoned up the back. As I adjusted the scratchy long sleeves, I muttered to her, "I hope she's tipping you well for this shit."
Adeline glared at me, clearly perturbed. Well, alright then. I supposed it was my fault that I was late. With five minutes to spare, Adeline threw my hair into a neat chignon, rammed the veil comb into my hair, and threw the sheer material over my face.
"We can do your makeup after the ceremony for pictures," she said, her tone clearly disgusted. She stood away from me, pushing her frizzy blond hair away from her round face and glaring. "The veil should hide your face for most of it."
What the fuck was wrong with my face? I touched it absently, but then I was ushered to the door by my insistent mother. "Shoes," Sylvia gasped suddenly. I bit back a groan.Not high heels. Please, not high heels.
"Right here," Adeline offered.
Yeah. Heels.Sparkly silver ones that looked like disco balls had barfed on them. I didn't even bother fighting it. The sooner I got this thing over with, the better. I shucked off my worn boots,peeled off my sweaty socks, and shoved my feet into the pumps. I straightened, patting the endless layers of the gown with wide eyes. "Am I good? Are we good?" I asked.
"Hardly," Sylvia muttered. She was wearing all black again, as she usually did, but today, the gown was long and made of lace. She'd left her hair down and pin straight, and actually, she looked a lot like a red-haired Morticia Addams. But less cheery.
"Let's just do this," I shot back scathingly. I caught sight of Adeline collapsing into a chair after we left, and I felt a pang of guilt over that. She hadn't asked to mad-dash dress a surly bride. I made a mental note to apologize if I got a chance later.
Sylvia had chosen a venue in the Coast Range mountains, and it was as artfully furnished as it was pretentious. The white shiplap hallways led to a set of double French doors, and as two employees opened them, a winter wonderland unfolded. White and cream flowers had been arranged in sweeping boughs to form a path through the frosty garden, and they led straight to an enormous, heated tent. It was packed with guests. My breath froze in my lungs, and I didn't think it was the temperature.
As Sylvia and I approached the tent entrance, hundreds of eyes locked onto me. I didn't recognize a single one of them, and that nearly included my own father where he waited at the entrance of the tent. He'd put on a lot of weight, and his face was splotchy and red. His hair was completely gone, and he tugged uncomfortably at a black and white tux. He gave me a placid smile. "You look beautiful, honey."
What. A. Joke. I hadn't seen this man in five years, and he showed up to my forced wedding with a smile and a half-drunk expression on his face? Actually, that tracked. I wasn't sure what I had been expecting. Maybe some small part of me had hoped he would stand up for me. But I knew better. He'd never stood up for me or for Knox, and he wasn't likely to start now.
An employee handed me a bouquet at the entrance. I took it with numb fingers, not even registering what the waterfall arrangement looked like, and then we were walking. A string quartet played a classic bridal march, and Sylvia beamed with delusional pride on my left and my dad led me on my right. I'd been avoiding it, but I forced my eyes to the front.
Spencer stood there, as promised. He wore a white suit that screamed for mercy, stretched tight across his wide chest and practically ripping at the seams over his biceps. As he looked my way, I realized he had changed his hair a little—he still had it faded on the bottom, but he'd trimmed the top, and the knot was smaller and neater. He still looked like an absolute badass Viking, and as salty as I was about this arrangement, I couldn't deny that he looked really good. Dammit.
As his dark eyes traveled the length of me, his lips tipped up a fraction, and he gave me an impish eyebrow raise. Was heteasing meright now? As we reached him, he grinned outright, and yep… he was teasing me.Asshole!
My dad did the whole "hand over the bride" bullshit, and then I was standing across from Spencer with a minister so old, he looked like he'd risen from a mausoleum. I ignored him and focused on Spencer, who had the kind of shit-eating grin on his face he'd gotten when he'd caught me practicing kissing my palm when I was fifteen. I glared through my veil. "Knock it off," I gritted out.
His grin widened. "You lookdelicious,Bee. Do you come in other flavors, too? I didn’t take you for a vanilla girl."
I growled a little, but the minister drowned it out by beginning his classic "we gather here today" spiel. I continued to ignore him, focusing on Spencer's galling smile. "Is this funny to you?" I hissed.
"A little." We were barely moving our mouths, and the minister had a microphone, so I was pretty sure none of thesestrangers could hear us. "Are you talking to me, now? That's new."
"No." I paused. "Yes. How long are we staying married?"
The minister faltered, "… in the—in the bonds of matrimony…"
Spencer squinted an eye. "How long do you want to stay married?"
The minister choked over the word "sacred" and stumbled on to finish, "before God and all these witnesses."
"I don't know how long she stipulated," I frowned.
"Life." He tapped his jacket lapel. "She faxed me a contract last week."
"Faxed?" I clarified dubiously.
