Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,427

me, skeptical.

“Come on. Humor me for a minute.”

“You’re not going to do anything stupid are you?” She places her hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side. “I seem to remember when we were kids, you used to tell me to close my eyes, making me think you had a surprise for me. Instead, you’d put mud down my shirt.”

A lightness fills my chest at the memory. “It was my lame attempt at flirting with you.”

“When you were ten?”

“Close your eyes, please,” I beg. Now isn’t the time to rehash the past. “Today is about you finding your perfect dress. I’m trying to help.”

“And you think you can do that by asking me to close my eyes?”

“I do.” I smirk.

She bites her lower lip, trying to fight a smile, then sighs, obviously curious as to what I have in mind. This can go either way. I half expect her to run from me again, as she has the past few times we’ve seen each other. But if she’s serious about marrying Wes, she deserves to have the wedding of her dreams, including the wedding dress of her dreams.

She closes her eyes and inhales a deep breath. “Okay. Now what?”

I raise myself from the chair I’ve been sitting in and make my way toward her. As I near, the scent of lavender becomes stronger, bringing forward so many happy memories. I can’t remember a time when she didn’t smell like this. Lavender, honey, and baby powder. That’s Brooklyn. All sweet and fresh.

“Do you remember when we were kids and Molly forced us to have a fake wedding?” I murmur, convinced the beat of my heart is deafening in the small space.

She swallows hard, lifting her chin. Her chest rises and falls in a quicker pattern, a blush blooming on her fair skin. Brooklyn’s never been one to wear much makeup, and she doesn’t need it. Her complexion has a natural glow to it, and the pink on her cheeks makes her even more stunning than I thought possible.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember walking down the makeshift aisle in our back yard that led to the gazebo?”

“I do,” she responds, breathy.

“And do you remember holding a bouquet of flowers and weeds Molly picked for you, which we later realized contained poison ivy and you broke out in a horrible rash?”

Her laughter fills the space, the sound comforting to my soul. To see her this at ease reminds me of when we were kids and had our lives before us. When we didn’t have a care in the world. When we thought things would always stay the same.

“I doubt I’ll ever forget that.”

I allow the light atmosphere to linger for a moment before asking my next question. My eyes trained on her, I continue toward her. The electricity in the room builds with each step I take. She feels it, too, her lips parting, her skin becoming more flushed.

“Do you remember what you were wearing?”

She nods, her voice low and even. “We found an old apron and tied it around my waist. Then we added long streams of toilet paper to it, after wrapping my chest and stomach in it. Your dad was furious we wasted all that toilet paper.”

“He certainly was.” I come to a stop in front of her. “And you’re correct. That was what you were wearing. But in your mind, when you walked down the aisle with the most exquisite smile on your face I’ve ever seen, what did you imagine you were wearing?”

Her shoulders relax and a peacefulness washes over her. For a minute, she’s no longer standing in the dressing room of an upscale wedding boutique on Newbury Street. She’s in our back yard, carrying a bouquet of poison ivy, walking toward me. I can feel it.

“A champagne-colored gown,” she begins. “Not pure white, but not gold, either. Somewhere in the middle. It had a floral lace overlay.” The more she speaks, the more animated her voice becomes. “The shoulders and back were bare, apart from the lace.”

I grin, knowing she must have imagined this dress more recently. These aren’t the dreams and wishes of an eight-year-old girl. They belong to the woman standing in front of me. And she deserves to have those dreams come true.

“It was fitted through the bodice and past the hips,” she continues, her hands following the line of her imaginary dress, stopping at mid-thigh. “Then it flowed out in a subtle flare.”

Happiness seems to ooze from every inch of her, making