My (Mostly) Fake Wedding - Penelope Bloom Page 0,15

from the leaf-like asymmetrical pattern that looked almost like armor over one shoulder to the hand-embroidered patterns throughout.

Chris nodded attentively, never letting his eyes move from me—from the dress.

“Gonfetti gets a nine out of ten.”

“Gonfi,” I corrected.

“Next!” Chris commanded, clapping his hands.

I headed back into the dressing room and let the employees of the boutique dress me up again. I couldn’t help watching myself in the mirror as they stripped me to my underwear, wondering why someone like Chris would’ve even bothered having meaningless sex with me, let alone the continued flirting.

Except I felt guilty for even wondering about it. I knew I should be doing more to shut down his flirtations, but part of me thought maybe that was just how he was. Some men really were that way, right? They flirted with everything that moved, and the ones who decided to marry them did so knowing full-well what they were getting into.

Even if that was the case, I had other things to think about. My career, for one.

I could be friends with clients, but it couldn’t go any farther than that. And the way I seemed to swoon every time Chris gave me the slightest bit of attention was not productive.

They tugged the latest dress on me, tightening it where they could. I wasn’t as big a fan of it as the previous dress, and I felt a little tempted to not even show Chris. Except my job was to make sure he had a chance to pick his favorite dress. Maybe this would actually be his style.

I took one last look at the ridiculously poufy shoulders and boxy frame that made me look like I belonged in the generation of big hair and empty hairspray bottles, then stepped out.

Chris’ eyebrows slowly crept up. “That’s a statement.”

“Yeah? What would you say the statement is?”

“That you look like an extra in some old-school David Bowie movie?” Chris grinned. “Not that you aren’t pulling it off, of course, but I’m going to give this one a three. And only because the model is bumping it up by two points.”

I tried not to smile but failed. “Okay. Not this one, then.”

We gradually worked our way through the rest of the dresses until we reached the last one. The best way to describe it would be if someone haphazardly wrapped me in thin strips of silk and connected it all with lace. It was so revealing that we had to take off my bra to keep it from showing through the cuts between fabric.

I shook my head at the mirror. I couldn’t let Chris see me like this.

“Is everything okay?” one of the two girls helping asked.

I thought about explaining, but I figured it would be more weird to assume he couldn’t handle seeing me like this. After all, what if this was the one dress? Maybe it’d be his favorite, and I’d be screwing up my job as a wedding planner if I didn’t let him see.

“No, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath, hating that I felt a little wave of warmth spread through my stomach at the idea of Chris seeing me in this. It’s harmless. You’re not going to let anything unprofessional happen.

“Well?” I said. My cheeks were on fire, and Chris wasn’t helping by staring at me wordlessly.

“It’s, well…” He cleared his throat and crossed his legs again, then folded both hands over his lap. In fact, he looked almost like he was in pain.

I forgot about the revealing dress and went to put my hand on his shoulder. I leaned in, trying to catch his eyes. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt at practice or something?”

“Just a cramp,” he said, clearing his throat once again.

I took his arm, trying to help him to stand. “Try standing up. Curling up like that is only going to make it worse.”

Chris tried to wave me off, but I knew I was right. He needed to stretch it out.

I took his other hand and tugged his huge frame up, and nearly pulled him into myself. Except the first thing I felt wasn’t his chest colliding with mine. It was the warm, hard point of something pressing against my belly just before our bodies crashed together.

Chris pushed away from me and turned, adjusting himself as he shook with laughter. “You brought that on yourself. You know that, right?”

“Was that—” I stammered. “Seriously? What are you, some hormonal middle schooler?”

“Look at you!” he said, still barely holding back laughter. “You’re like