Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
The path from the bridal suite to the pavilion makes the resort appear deserted, just the whisper of the breeze through leaves and unfamiliar birdsong accompanying us. Even Sarai is quiet as she walks alongside me. There’s a slight wobble in my step thanks to the skyscraper heels I’m wearing. My something borrowed, I suppose, given the Louboutin dupes belong to Sarai. I’m not sure the vodka helps that wobble, not that I’ve had heaps.
As we turn a corner, the soft strains of a lone guitar welcome us.
At last.
Apt, I think, ignoring the faux leather pinching my toes. The ceremony was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, but this dress, this exquisite piece of beauty and tailoring, took forever to fasten. As predicted, it was several inches too long, even with the heels. So Sarai, contender for pretend bridal attendant of the year, managed to call in a seamstress last minute. She quickly pinned up the hem, meaning I’ll get to spend my pretend-bride fee on something other than medical expenses for a broken neck.
As there wasn’t much the sewing magician could do with the rest of the dress, I won’t be sitting down. Mainly because I feel like I’ve been trussed into a medieval torture device. I suppose the one benefit of my boobs sitting so high is that if I feel tired or bored, I can just prop my chin on them and have a little snooze.
No more lonely days. I hum a little to the Etta James classic, before a wave of sadness hits me. That’s what marriage is, isn’t it? Real marriage, anyway. Two becoming one. Forever.
“Wait.” I spin around, only half catching Sarai’s frown as I stick my fingers into my cleavage and pull out an emergency vodka miniature.
“Really?” Sarai snipes as I crack the lid. She reaches for it and swipes it out of my hand.
“I’m nervous!” I protest as she shoves it into the pocket of her dress.
“I thought we’d already dealt with that.”
“Obviously not,” I retort. Sarai gave me something to settle my nerves when the photographer arrived. Something herbal, but it hadn’t worked.
“Huh.”
“I know this is just pretend, but . . .” I was supposed to do this today. Genuinely. For real. And I feel sad suddenly—not because I didn’t marry Adam. A life lived alone has to be better than living a lie. Maybe I’m sad because I might never get the chance again. I can’t see myself risking my heart again.
“You’ll be okay once you get to the end of the aisle.”
Will I? There’s so much riding on this, and I know a little too much about my groom. Like how soft his kisses are and how proficient his finger work is.
Sarai’s hand folds over mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The lump that forms in my throat is laughed free as she adds, “Predrinks are meant to be shared.”
“I thought my needs were greater.” My reply is a little warbly. But then we’re on our way again.
“Crunch time,” Sarai whispers as we turn the corner and the guitarist transitions seamlessly to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
My lips curve at Evie’s solid choice of music. Classic, beautiful. It’s what I was supposed to . . . I push the thought away.
“Man, he is flexin’ in that suit.”
I follow Sarai’s tiny nod to the dais, from which Fin watches our progress. His linen suit is somewhere between sand and stone in color, his white shirt open at the neck and unbuttoned a little lower than I’d normally think appropriate. His mouth curls as my eyes lift. They don’t hold his gaze due to the albatross flapping its wings inside my rib cage.
“Even with boring hair, that man’s kimchi is extra spicy.”
“What?” I whisper. Then, “Oh!”
His hair is dark—I hadn’t realized immediately. It’s not midnight dark like Oliver’s, but it is much less conspicuously fair. He must’ve colored it somehow.
My third reaction (following surprise, then eww-me-no-likey) is a pinprick of warmth in my heart. He might be a playboy or whatever, but the man deeply loves his friends.
I wonder what that feels like. To have people who love and support you. I thought I had friends not so long ago, but losing Adam, and the stuff that followed, proved otherwise. Our friends took sides. His, mainly. It seems it’s hard to remain neutral when that friend group originally belonged to one party. Or maybe it’s more a case of it being hard to be neutral but easy to forgive one giant cheating shithead. I doubt he confessed that he was unfaithful at every opportunity that passed his way.
He lied to me, and he probably lied to them. Or maybe they knew. Who knows? But it’s no surprise I no longer call those people my friends. The mistake I made (one of many, probably) was prioritizing my relationship over my prior friendships.