The air in the boutique was thick with the scent of champagne and cloying optimism. It felt like breathing in a cloud of someone else’s dream.
Satin and tulle cascaded from every surface, a sea of ivory and blush that threatened to drown me.
I stood on a small pedestal, a human mannequin in a ridiculously expensive sheath of “Dusty Sage” silk.
I was the planner. I was supposed to be holding a clipboard, not standing here while a seamstress with a mouth full of pins nipped and tucked at my waist.
“Chloe insisted the planner coordinate *perfectly* with the bridal party,” the seamstress mumbled around the metal. “Hold still. ”
Holding still was the one thing I couldn’t seem to do lately. Chloe, my client and the bride-to-be, flitted around, her laughter a series of bright, sharp notes that grated on my nerves.
Marcus was there, too. He’d insisted on coming, “to support Chloe. ” He leaned against a far wall, a vision of preppy, dependable charm in a pale blue polo shirt. He caught my eye in the mirror and his smile widened, a warm, reassuring look meant only for me, a look that said, *I meant what I said at dinner. *
I forced a smile back, a brittle thing that felt like it might crack my face. The seamstress pricked my side with a pin, and I flinched, grateful for the physical sting.
The past few weeks had been a blur of recklessness and relief. Rhys was a fever in my blood, the only antidote to the pressure cooker my life had become.
A supply closet, the rough upholstery of his truck, the husky timbre of his voice at two a. m. . . . It wasn’t just sex. It was a dark, desperate communion. He didn’t ask me to be perfect.
My phone, lying on a nearby velvet chaise, buzzed silently. I knew without looking it was him. My pulse kicked up a notch.
Just then, the bell over the boutique door chimed, and Rhys walked in.
The entire atmosphere in the room shifted. He was carrying a garment bag—Marcus’s final-fit tux. The best man, ever diligent. He passed it off to a sales associate, his gaze sweeping the room. It landed on Marcus first, a quick, brotherly grin exchanged between them.
Then, his eyes found mine in the mirror.
The world went silent.
The chatter, the laughter, the *snip-snip* of the shears—it all faded into a dull roar. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the line of my bare shoulders, the curve of my spine visible through the low-cut back of the dress. A slow heat unfurled deep in my belly. He saw me.
Not the competent wedding planner, but the woman who had been pressed against the wall of his studio just last night, his name a ragged prayer on her lips.
A ghost of a smirk played on his lips, a secret just for us.
“Everything looking good, ladies?” Rhys’s voice was a low rumble.
Chloe beamed. “Perfect. Ava found the most amazing color, didn’t she. It’s called ‘Dusty Sage’. ”
Rhys’s eyes were still on me in the mirror. “Looks good, Ava. ”
The words were casual, but the meaning was anything but. He wasn’t talking about the dress. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was the razor’s edge I lived on.
“Alright, you’re all set,” the seamstress announced. “You can change. ”
I stepped down from the pedestal, my legs unsteady. As I walked towards the dressing room, I felt a pair of eyes on me, and for once, they weren’t Rhys’s or Marcus’s. They belonged to Jessica Blair.
She was Chloe’s cousin, the quietest of the bridesmaids. She was an observer. And right now, she was watching me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t accusatory. It was *knowing*.
My blood ran cold.