Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

17

Thursday, December 19

5 days until the wedding

Jenny

It’s our last fitting before the wedding. Caleb’s on the other side of the bridal shop, in the men’s section, with his dad, Dean, and his friend Nick, trying on their tuxes. Initially, I was surprised to learn that Dean was one of Caleb’s groomsmen, but once I gave it some thought, it made sense. Besides Gwen, he spends the most time with Caleb. They understand each other in a way that goes beyond an employer-bodyguard relationship.

I’m on the ladies’ side of the shop. Alvina and I are Gwen’s bridesmaids. Luckily, Alvina and Gwen had their fittings before they left for L.A. Now, it’s my turn. I stand on a round pedestal in the center of the room. I’m surrounded by mirrors, a million unsmiling images of me reflected back.

My bridesmaid dress is a beautiful deep maroon. It’s red enough that you can tell it’s for a holiday wedding, but not so red that I should audition for the part of Rudolph’s nose. The fabric is the smoothest silk I’ve ever seen, shimmering when the light hits it just right. It’s fitted in the bodice, waist, and hips, then flares into soft folds that flow all the way to the floor.

When Gwen showed it to me at our first fitting, I had gotten teary-eyed at how pretty it was. “I picked it out for you,” Gwen told me, her eyes shining. “I want you to feel special on my big day. You should know how beautiful you are to me.” That had tipped me over the edge and straight into waterworks territory. I had cried, hugging her until the staff reminded us that we only had an hour appointment and they hadn’t tried on Gwen’s dress yet.

Her new dress. Gwen had been engaged once before, but it ended before they picked out a venue. She had an old dress from that engagement, never worn, that she had donated to charity. I went with her to deliver it.

“Are you sad?” I had asked, as we stood together and watched the dress in its white garment bag get carried away.

“No,” she answered, strong and steady as Gwen so often is. “I feel good knowing that gown is going to someone who will be excited to wear it. That was never going to be me.” She hugged me with an arm around my waist.

“I’ve found my place now. Where I’m seen and loved. With Caleb.”

Her words had made my heart squeeze with happiness.

Now, I’m not happy as the tailor flutters about, adjusting the dress. She’s a petite woman, with black hair tied up messily into a bun. She talks around the pins caught between her teeth. “Can you suck in your breath a bit for me, dear?”

Cheeks burning, I bring in my stomach as much as possible. There’s the metallic sound of the zipper being dragged up. The fabric constricts my abdomen and chest. It’s so tight that I worry I’ll split a seam. The tailor notices the way it bunches. She tugs at it, frowning. I want to tell her it’s not the clothing’s fault.

It’s mine.

Guess I’ve gained a pound or two since the initial fitting. Not much, but enough to make what was already a snug dress turn downright suffocating. The tailor tsks. The sound causes a rush of humiliation that makes my cheeks glow red hot. A few more pokes, tugs, and disgruntled glares later, the woman stands.

“Okay,” she says, taking the pins out of her mouth and using them to gesture down the hall, “you can go and change into your normal clothing. We’re all done.”

I take a long look in the mirror in front of me and hate what I see. The dress shows off every bulge and bump. When I first tried it on, I felt like Cinderella. Now I’ve turned into one of the evil stepsisters.

“Gotta exercise more,” I tell myself. Eat better too, but that one’s harder. I love sweets so much that it’s hard to say no to them. Christmas is the worst time of the year, with so many delicious cookies and candy everywhere. This is a daily struggle for me, my food-loving side fighting with my harsh inner critic.

Feeling defeated, I trudge to the small changing room. Once I’m there, I deliberately avoid the mirror. Putting my back to it, I reach behind me to pull down the zipper, but it’s stuck. I tug harder and feel a yank on my hair. I must’ve gotten some of it tangled in the zipper. The more I mess with it, the more my hair gets caught up in the dress. Soon, my head is pounding from the exertion of battling with the zipper and from all the strands that have been ripped out of my scalp.

I peek my head out, hoping I can find someone to untangle me, but no one is there. Back in the room, I work on the problem some more but only make things worse. Now big chunks of hair are caught in it. In order to not pull them out, I keep my neck tilted to the left at an awkward angle. That’s when I hear a voice calling outside.

“Jennifer,” Dean shouts, “are you in here?”

“I’m here,” I call back, still struggling. “What do you need?”

“Do you know if Gwen put in an order for the tuxes to come with handkerchiefs? Mine and Caleb’s have them, but Nick’s doesn’t.”

“I told her to get the handkerchiefs,” I say through the door. “I noticed you had one when I first met you, so I figured you’d want it.”

“You remembered that?” Dean’s voice is loud now, like he’s close.

“Of course. That’s why Gwen ordered them.”

The silence lasts so long that I assume he’s walked away. Another yank on the zipper pulls out my hair until I exclaim with a noisy, “Ouch,” followed by a growl of frustration.

“Is something wrong?” asks Dean.

I jerk with surprise, losing more hair. My heart stops beating. I grasp at my chest in time to feel it thump back to life. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.” The door rattles lightly, as if he’s touching it from the outside. “What’s going on in there? It sounds like you’re fighting with a gorilla.”

I grimace at that surprisingly accurate description. I’ve been trying to get this dress off for fifteen minutes with no progress. “My zipper’s stuck.”

A long silence broken by Dean clearing his throat. “Do you—do you need help?”

That makes me freeze. I need help, but the thought of him seeing me like this is humiliating. Still…I have to get out of this dress. That tailor lady is tiny but terrifying. I don’t want her to accuse me of hogging the changing room.

“Is there any staff out there?” I move closer to the door and place my hand on it. “Anyone?”

His voice gets softer, like he’s moved away. “Just me. I think they’re with other customers.”

Of course they are.

“I might need some help,” I admit reluctantly.

With a twist of the knob, I unlock the door and inch it open. Dean’s on the other side, casually leaning against the wall with both hands shoved into his pants pockets, like a model on the cover of GQ. When my eyes land on him, all the breath whooshes out of my body. He’s stunning. He’s wearing the tuxedo, a dark grey three-piece with a maroon tie—the same color as my dress—that Caleb picked out for the wedding. In it, Dean is absolute pure male perfection. A matching handkerchief is folded neatly in his jacket pocket. His slacks are tailored, hugging his muscular legs.

While my eyes have been taking a self-guided tour of his body, he’s been busy staring at me with a wide-eyed, slightly shocked expression. He doesn’t blink, almost like he’s afraid he might miss something. We stare at each other, both breathing a bit too fast, the air crackling between us.

He breaks the silence first. “Wow. That is—you look—um, nice.”

He’ll never know how much I needed to hear those words, to see the admiration in his eyes. It wipes away my shame at the dress being tight, my worry about how my body might not fit the standard for classic American beauty. Moments before, I’d been convinced I wasn’t attractive, but something in the way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful.

“Yeah. You, too,” I say breathlessly, unable to rip my eyes away from his broad shoulders and tapered waist.

Dean shifts foot to foot, the first time I’ve seen him nervous. “You need help?”

“Zipper’s caught. I can’t get it down.” I turn my back to him. I face the mirror so I can watch as he steps into the dressing room with me, closing the door behind him. We’re trapped together, pressed close in this space that felt small when it was just me but seems miniscule with both of us in it.

He moves closer, his eyes focusing on the problem. “Hmm.” He bites his lower lip and tips his head as he assesses the situation. “You’ve got yourself in quite the pickle, haven’t you?”

I giggle and ask, “Pickle?”

My laughter dies the moment his hands touch me, their warmth searing through the fabric of my dress. I suck in a breath, my pulse fluttering. Over the past couple of days, I’ve become increasingly aware of how handsome he is, how my body tunes into his presence like it’s my favorite station on the radio.

He gives an experimental pull on the zipper. “Ow!” My hand flies to my head.

“Oh, sorry.” For the next five minutes, Dean painstakingly separates my hair from the dress, strand by strand. He’s focused on the task, which allows me the opportunity to watch him in the mirror. There’s a frown of concentration on his face, a wrinkle between his brows. He purses his full lips, the lower one sticking out. His warm breath breezes over my skin, making it prickle with goosebumps. If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Several times he pauses, closes his eyes, takes in a deep inhalation, lets it out, and then goes to work. Finally, my hair is free, and I can fully extend my neck. Dean’s hand stays on the zipper.

He could leave now.

I could get the zipper down by myself.

But he doesn’t.

I could tell him to go.

But I don’t.

Instead, we both hesitate. I hold my breath, waiting to find out what he’ll do next. His brown eyes flash up to the mirror to meet mine. He holds me in that intense stare, and slowly he pulls the zipper down so my shoulders are exposed. Not low enough to see my bra, but when his gaze drops to my bare skin he swallows so loudly that it echoes in the small room.

There’s a suspended moment when my imagination takes flight and I picture him pressing his lips to the back of my neck.

Dean doesn’t do that. Instead, he moves a big step away, so far that he bumps into the closed door. Reaching behind, he fumbles for the doorknob and opens it, practically falling out of the room.

“Everything’s fine now. You can manage the rest,” he mumbles before he turns around, running straight into the tailor. She loses her balance and trips, but he catches her. She gasps, her accusing gaze bouncing between the two of us. I’m sure we look guilty as heck, with him all flustered and my dress hanging off my shoulders. Dean reaches out and swings the door shut, cutting off my view. He leaves me there.

Alone.