the cluttered space, all of them stuffed with wedding dresses spanning every style, from simple and elegant to exceptional and over-the-top. As we head farther inside, I feel out of place, like a priest in a brothel. Yes, I’ve been married before, but there was no big wedding. Hell, there was no engagement. After a month of incredible sex, I couldn’t think of a reason not to marry Carla, so we hopped on a flight to Vegas and tied the knot. In retrospect, there were a lot of reasons we shouldn’t have married, but the young, stupid version of myself wouldn’t have listened, particularly to the voice inside saying I was only doing it in the hopes of finally forgetting about Brooklyn.
Judy heads toward the back of the showroom, pulling back one of the half-dozen dark curtains that hang in sections along the rear wall, revealing an intimate fitting room. An ornate divan and a few chairs make up a sitting area in the center, a pedestal placed in front of the large three-way mirrors a few feet away. In the corner is another curtain, which I assume leads to a private dressing room for the bride-to-be. Every wall is lined with racks full of white dresses. And not simple dresses, either, as I have a feeling Brooklyn prefers. These are the quintessential Cinderella-style gowns, complete with more tulle, sequins, and feathers than any dress should have. The extravagance makes me itchy, and I rub the back of my neck. If I feel this way, I can’t imagine what’s going through Brooklyn’s mind right now.
“Mrs. Bradford arranged these in order of preference,” Judy explains as she scurries toward the rack closest to the mirrors and grabs the first few dresses, hanging them in the fitting room. She looks back at us, waiting for one of us to react. When we both remain locked in place, uncomfortable expressions on our faces as we stare at all the white, she grits a fake smile. “I’ll let you get settled and will be back to check on you in a few minutes.” Then she heads away, bringing the cloud of perfume surrounding her.
The instant we’re alone, Brooklyn’s entire body relaxes and she blows out a long breath, assessing the scene in front of us. She lifts her eyes to mine, giving me a small smile. “Well, if I’m going to have time to try on these dresses before you need to pick up the girls from school, I better get moving.” I can’t help but notice the slight quiver in her voice.
When she starts toward the dressing room, I grab her arm, forcing her to face me. Her eyes widen in surprise. I’m not sure if it’s from my hand on her skin or from her abrupt stop. I wonder if she feels what I do whenever our bodies touch, this unrelenting electricity burning so hot, nothing can put it out.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, placing my hands on her biceps. Her skin is soft, smooth, perfect. “You don’t have to try on a bunch of dresses the Brooklyn I know wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. This is your wedding. You deserve to have whatever dress you want. Not some ridiculous garment your future mother-in-law dictates.”
“I can’t afford anything here,” she whispers. “I can’t afford a dress at all. Not on my salary. If I had a few years to save up like I thought I’d have, it wouldn’t be a problem. But since I got railroaded into agreeing to a June wedding, I don’t have a choice but to pick a dress Lydia likes.” She steps away and I drop my hands with a sigh.
I hate everything about this, but I don’t know what else to do. I’d love to offer to pay for whatever dress she wants, but she’d see it for more than it is. Brooklyn and I seem to be treading dangerous waters these days. I don’t want to add to the tension.
“It doesn’t matter what the dress looks like on the hanger,” I assure her when she’s about to disappear into the dressing room. It’s a bold move, but I can’t help myself. The way every inch of her seems to be devoid of life makes me not care. She needs to know how amazing she is. “You’ll make it beautiful. You make everything you wear beautiful.”
She glances over her shoulder, her lips curving up slightly. “As much as I should tell you not to