"So you don't even know?" I made a sound of frustration. "Come on! You're marrying his brother for God's sake. You'vegotto know."
"Why?" she said. "We never talk about him."
"I think he's famous," I said.
"Jake?" She gave a snort. "You mean infamous."
"No," I said. "Famous. People keep asking for his autograph."
"Oh shut up."
"I'm serious," I said.
A hard knock sounded at my dressing room door.
"Sorry!" I called. "I'll be out in a minute."
"You'd better be," Bianca snapped.
Oh crap. It washer.
Bianca knocked again, harder this time. "We had three hours," Bianca said, "not three years."
"I've gotta go," I whispered into the phone. "I'll call you later, alright?"
I hung up before she could say anything else – although, as I heard my phone buzz again and again, I was pretty sure my voicemail was getting an earful.
A half-hour later, I stood with Bianca, looking in the full-length mirror. Normally, I liked to shop, but this was less fun than a root canal.
Bianca wasn't helping. Insisting it was part of her job – whateverthatmeant – she selected every single dress that I tried on, going for an ultra-conservative look that just wasn't my style.
I winced at my reflection. "Thiscan'tbe what he had in mind," I said.
