The fact that he noticed which products I prefer sends aslight tremor through me. "Thanks," I manage before escaping to the bathroom.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I try to sort through the tangle of emotions the past day has created. Concern for Gordie. Sympathy for Alder. The strange intimacy of sharing his bed and the even stranger realization that I slept better next to him than I have in months. The way his hand sought mine in the night, our fingers interlacing like it was the most natural thing in the world. My thoughts slip to the kiss, to the press of his hard length against my soft belly. Nope, I cannot allow myself to go there. Especially not today.
I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, padding down the hall to my room with damp hair and racing thoughts. My most immediate concern is what to wear to this wedding. In my hasty packing when leaving Brad's apartment, I didn't exactly prioritize dressy clothes.
I rifle through my drawers, growing increasingly frustrated as I discard option after option. Too casual. Too professional. Too summery. Too worn.
Underlying it all is the familiar anxiety: Will I look out of place among all these athletes and their conventionally attractive partners? Will people wonder what Alder is doing with someone who looks like me?
Brad's voice slithers into my mind:All anyone has to do is look at you to realize why I strayed.
I push the thought away fiercely. No. I refuse to let him in my head today.
Just as I'm about to give up and text Alder that I need to make an emergency shopping run, my hand brushes against something silky at the back of the closet. I pull out a navy blue dress I'd forgotten I owned—a splurge from my final year of dental school that I wore exactly once before Brad commented that it was "a bit much" for my figure.
I hold it up skeptically. The fabric is beautiful, a rich midnight blue with a subtle shimmer. The neckline is moredaring than I usually go for, and the cut is designed to emphasize curves rather than minimize them.
With a deep breath, I slip it on, steeling myself for disappointment. But when I turn to the mirror, I'm startled by my reflection. The dress fits—more than fits—it looks good. The color brings out the warmth in my skin, and the cut accentuates my waist while skimming over my hips.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I look at my body without immediately cataloging its flaws. Instead, I see strength in my arms that paddled a kayak yesterday, compassion in the hands that helped comfort Gordie, and confidence in the set of my shoulders after navigating a crisis with calm professionalism.
I slide the dress back off so I can lotion up.
I blow-dry my hair into loose waves, apply makeup with more care than usual, and locate the low heels I'd tossed into my suitcase as an afterthought. The woman in the mirror looks like me, but somehow more—more confident, more present, more alive.
Looking at this version of myself, I can almost believe what Alder said on the riverbank yesterday:You're really beautiful, you know that?
The dress is laid out on the bed as I finish my makeup in my underwear and bra, still debating whether I'm truly brave enough to wear something so fitted to mingle with Alder's family and my colleagues. I lean toward the mirror, applying mascara with careful precision when I hear the door open behind me.
"Lena, have you seen my?—"
Alder's voice cuts off abruptly. I freeze, the mascara wand still raised, and meet his eyes in the mirror.
He stands motionless in the doorway, one hand resting on the knob. His gaze travels slowly from my face down to my lace-trimmed bra, over the curve of my waist, lingering onmy hips in the matching navy underwear, and then down my bare legs.
I should say something. Move. Cover myself. React in any way at all. But the look on his face has paralyzed me—a raw, unguarded hunger that sends heat cascading through my body.
When his eyes finally return to mine, their intensity steals my breath. There's no artifice in his face, no calculation—just pure, honest desire.
"Lena," he says, his voice rough and low. "You're so fucking sexy."
CHAPTER 22
ALDER
I stand frozenin the doorway, the words still hanging in the air between us.You're so fucking sexy.Did I really say that out loud?
Lena stares at me through the mirror, mascara wand suspended mid-air, her eyes wide. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. My gaze travels over her again, helplessly drawn to the curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts in that lace bra, the matching panties hugging her rounded hips.
Blood rushes in my ears, and I know I should apologize, back out of the room, and close the door. But my feet won't move, and my mouth has apparently lost all connection to my brain.
"I..." I finally manage, my voice rough. "I should have knocked."
Lena slowly lowers the mascara wand, carefully setting it on the vanity. She doesn't grab a towel or try to cover herself. Instead, she turns to face me directly, and the motion sends a jolt of heat straight through my core.
"Yes," she says, her voice steadier than I would have expected.
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us.I'm acutely aware of my racing pulse, the dryness in my mouth, the way my jeans have suddenly become uncomfortably tight.
