When I close the door to my bedroom, I lock it. I don’t need Jolene trying to climb into bed with me tonight. Not interested at all.
Tossing and turning, I can’t get to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about kissing Blue. Her lips. Her skin. Her smell. It’s killing me not to have her in my bed. I’m going to have to figure out how to make that shit happen. Soon.
Chapter 8: Blue
The wedding dress shop, an ostentatious display of satin and lace, feels suffocating as I step inside. The air is heavy with the cloying scent of roses, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning in my heart. This is the last place I want to be, but my sister insisted on dragging me here.
Mannequins draped in ivory and pearl gowns loom like silent judges, their empty eyes staring through my facade. The chandeliers cast a harsh, almost glaring light, making the room seem more like a stage for an elaborate charade than a place of joy.
I wander past racks of dresses, each one more elaborate and glittering than the last, their beauty mocking my discontent. The mirrors lining the walls reflect not a blushing bride, but a prisoner trapped in a gilded cage.
As the saleswoman approaches with a bright, eager smile, I feel a knot tighten in my chest. The silk and tulle that should symbolize dreams feel like the tangible threads of my impending entrapment.
“Do you have an appointment,” the middle-aged woman asks, looking up at me through her tortoise-colored cat-eye eyeglasses. Her pinched face and puckered lips are a mirror to my own distaste.
“Yes. It’s under Blue LeBlanc,” Lacy says.“Two-thirty.”
“Very prompt.” The woman nods, and her face relaxes slightly. At least she’s giving us a hint of approval, although I don’t know why I even care.“I’m Gloria. I’ll be assisting you today. Can I get you ladies a glass of Champagne?”
“Yes, please,” I say immediately.
“Not for me,” Lacy says. As soon as Gloria’s out of earshot she leans over to whisper,“I’m late. Now, don’t get too excited, but if there’s even a chance that I’m pregnant, I don’t want to ruin it.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to be enthusiastic for her. I know how much she wants to give Xavier an heir. She seems to genuinely want the child too, which is a relief. I’d hate to think that she only wanted one so she could cement her financial connection with Xavier.
“Are you the bride?” Gloria asks, handing Lacy a glass of sweet tea before passing a sparkling Champagne flute to me.
“I’m Lacy, the maid of honor. My sister Blue is getting married. She’s looking for something traditional. Very Southern. Dramatic. With lots of lace and beading. Probably a mermaid or trumpet style. That’s in this season, correct?” Lacy asks. I have no doubt she’s done her homework on this. She knows far more about what’s fashionable than I do.
“Do you have anything to add?” Gloria asks me, as if my opinion is an afterthought.
“I’d like it to be pink,” I say softly. Although I’ve never been the type of girl who grows up dreaming of her wedding, I do like the idea of having a non-traditional color. Pink is so feminine and gorgeous. I’d love to find something in a soft blush.
“She’s so funny,” Lacy laughs.“Of course she’s wearing white. You’re still a virgin so there’s no reason to pretend you’re not.”
“How would you know?” I grumble.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Her face goes dark and scary. I don’t know why she’d even care. It’s weird.
“No. I just wanted to see your reaction.” I smirk.
Gloria looks from me to her then back. She narrows her gaze at me.“White is traditional. What venue are you using?”
“Our father’s mansion,” Lacy says.“It’s a gorgeous white antebellum plantation mansion. It’s been in our family since before the War Against Northern Aggression.”
The fact that she’s using that expression unironically makes me want to crawl into a hole. Although people still use that expression in the South, it’s not nearly as common as it was in our grandparents’generation.
“That sounds lovely,” Gloria says, smiling.“Please, take a seat in the dressing suite and I’ll bring some of this year’s most sought after dresses.”
“Do you have any couture?” Lacy asks.
“Of course.” Gloria frowns as she walks away.
The dressing area is a dizzying labyrinth of mirrors, reflecting my image from every conceivable angle. Lacy takes a seat on a fuchsia crushed-velvet Chesterfield sofa. I’m too wound up to sit. I pace instead, waiting for the saleswoman to return.
“I don’t know why you’re still not excited,” Lacy says.“Your wedding will be just as beautiful as mine. I’ll make sure of it.”
“If I loved him, it would be different.”
