liked it when we fought and teased and taunted each other. This new, sweet version of him disconcerted me.
“Coming through. Coming through. Make way. God, what is this, American Horror Story? Just kidding, Ms. Westwood. Love your stuff. And mucho respect. The Sex Pistols was my favorite band in high school. Admittedly because it made me look cooler—the music is so not my cuppa—but still. Have you seen my designer? Maddie? Maddie Goldbloom? Short, pixie hair, a look of pure horror on her face . . . oh, never mind. There she is.” Sven giggled, waltzing past designers and assistants and models, a cup of coffee glued to his hand. He gripped me by the shoulder and yanked me up from the chair.
I wanted to throw up all over again as he righted me.
“Wow. Seriously, Maddie, the dress is not half as bad as I thought it would be. I’m going as far as calling it cute.”
I eyed him skeptically—miserably—and nodded. “Hmm, thanks?”
“I need to talk to you.” He pulled me away from the backstage area and into the hallway. A narrow white thing full of side doors leading to different rooms.
I was thinking of pointing out that I had a runway to walk in less than ten minutes, but really, no tears would be shed if I were to miss what ought to turn into an embarrassing farce.
I stumbled over my feet as Sven pulled me a little too forcefully down the hallway. Not only was I inherently clumsy, but because of my lackluster height (“Fun size sounds better,” Layla had said, attempting to console me), I had to wear six-inch heels, which made walking impossible, let alone running.
“So congratulations—your Wedding Dress to End All Wedding Dresses has been officially purchased,” Sven said airily.
“Purchased?” I panted, trying to keep up. “You mean by Black & Co.? They always pick up our collection. I thought we had a three-year deal with them.”
“No, not with Black & Co. It’s a private buyer.”
“How could a private buyer purchase it? It’s not for sale yet. And even if it was, no one has seen it. That’s why we’re here. To show it for the first time.”
“Yes, well, the buyer is confident they’ll like the dress.”
“What about our commitment to Black & Co.?”
“We found a loophole in the contract. The money was too good to turn down.”
“But—” I started.
“The dress is sold. This is not the issue.” He cut me off, his movements a breeze. We were getting farther away from backstage and into some sort of an office floor.
“What is the issue?” I tried to regulate my breaths. Oh, snap. What if it had been purchased by a celebrity? What if the celebrity didn’t want anyone else to see it so they could have first dibs and show it off? What if the whole runway thing was canceled and I could just go about my day and watch the show from the sidelines? I could already imagine myself seeing the dress draped on Dua Lipa on the cover of OK! magazine—was she dating anyone these days?—and getting giddy. Pride made my chest swell.
“The buyer has an unusual request.” Sven finally stopped. We were far enough from backstage not to be seen, standing in front of a white wooden door.
I tucked flyaway locks of hair behind my ear. Sven swatted my hands away. “You did not sit for forty-five minutes to get your hair curled just so you could ruin it a second before the show.”
So I am doing the show? What happened to my Dua Lipa dream?
“What’s the request?” I huffed, tired of being kept in the dark.
“Well”—Sven looked around, a little queasy—“you’ll have to ask the groom.”
“The groom?”
Sven pushed the door in front of us open, and I tripped forward on my heels from the shock. A pair of big, confident hands caught me at the last minute.
Chase.
Chase was holding me.
Not only was he holding me, but he was staring into my eyes, his twinkling blue-grays full of mischief and heartbreaking warmth I had never seen in them before.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“H-hi . . . ?”
I pushed myself up on both feet, aware that I probably had puke breath, and looked around me. Everybody was here. Well, everybody I knew from New York, anyway. Lori, Katie, Julian, Clementine, Sven, Ethan (Ethan?), Grant, Francisco, and all the colleagues I was close with. Nina and Layla slipped in just as I took count of the people in the room. Apparently, they’d been behind Sven and