Page 120 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Oh,” she says, clearly pleased. She does sound much better than she did a few weeks ago—her voice is stronger, and she seems happy. “I’ve been feeling wonderful over the past couple of days. It’s nice to be home.”
Thanks to a better regimen of medications and some good physical therapy, my mother’s doctors decided that she could continue her treatment from home rather than staying in the center, which I know has been good for both her and my father.
The center has assigned her a home care nurse, who makes things much easier for both of my parents. Now, thanks to thecenter’s staff, my father doesn’t have to be a full-time caretaker—and we don’t have to worry as much about emergencies.
“I bet it is,” I say. “I’m really happy you’ve been feeling better, Mom. How’s Dad?”
“He’s been tackling the garden,” she says cheerfully. “He’s planting peonies, apparently. They’re my favorites. I can see him through the window right now.”
I chat with my mom for a little bit about her garden, my father, and her plans for the next few weeks. She continues to gently tease me about Reed, and by the end of the conversation, I’ve promised her that I’ll ask him if we can do dinner at their house this weekend.
Unfortunately, I have to hang up only half an hour after our conversation started. Usually, when I go this long without calling my mom, we’ll talk for a couple of hours, minimum. But today, I have an appointment to keep—even though I’d rather not.
I have to meet up with Cecily again, this time to shop for a wedding dress.
It’s all for publicity, of course. All part of the ruse.
It’s the last thing I want to do. As I get ready to leave, the last remnants of this morning’s bliss bleed away, and by the time the elevator doors are closing on me, I’m in a bit of a foul mood.
This is the last thing I want to be doing, and the worst possible way to do it.
If I was really going dress shopping, I would want my friends to be there. I can’t imagine picking out a wedding dress without Riley’s input. And I’d want my mom there, too; I always pictured it that way.
But I’m not really going dress shopping. This isn’t really my wedding. This isn’t my life. I’m stuck in a fantasy, where I only get Reed Eastwood in the dark halls of his home and theshadowy confines of our bedrooms. The second it’s all over, he’ll be gone.
Before, I would’ve been okay with just helping him out and taking the money. It could’ve been enough. Now, though, I’veseenhim—really seen him. I’ve seen how caring and observant he is. How much he would do for his friends. How sweet and funny he can be.
I want more than a temporary relationship and PR-approved appearances. I even want more than secret hookups.
Unfortunately, anything more is against the rules.
I meet Cecilyat a fashion designer’s office in midtown. I’ve heard the designer’s name somewhere before—she’s another pseudo-celebrity. I think she designed a gown for some actress at last year’s Met Gala, or something like that.
I don’t look her up; I decide I’d rather not know. The last thing I need is to get intimidated and act nervous around Cecily.
When I arrive, the receptionist guides me straight to the fitting rooms, where Cecily is waiting for me with her arms and legs folded. She doesn’t greet me, or even pretend that she’s happy to see me. Instead, she just gestures to a rack of long, white dresses on the opposite side of the room.
“Well, let’s get a move on,” she says stiffly. “I don’t have all day. Start at the end and work your way down.”
I breathe out quietly through my nose, trying to convince myself that it’s better this way. At least it won’t be dragged out. It’s become clear to me over the past few weeks that Cecily doesn’t really like me, and I’m not exactly her biggest fan, either. The less time we have to spend together, the better.
This is all about appearances. I need to post a few shots of wedding dresses to Instagram. With any luck, someone will see Cecily and I leaving the boutique together. That’s all that matters today.
So I grit my teeth and grab the first dress on the rack, then duck behind the curtain to get changed.
The first dress is an off-the-shoulder number. It has intricate designs embroidered into the bodice in gold thread, and the golden motif carries into the skirt, which is hemmed in metallic fabric. I think it looks beautiful, but the moment I step out from behind the curtain, Cecily is already frowning and shaking her head.
“Too non-traditional,” she says, her nose in the air.
“How come?” I glance over my shoulder at one of the mirrors that surrounds me, shifting my posture so that the skirt sways. “I think it looks nice.”
“It may ‘look nice,’” Cecily says archly, “but it won’t work. You can’t wear a wedding dress that isn’t pure white. It may give the tabloids fodder for speculation.”
I do my best to hide my frown, turning my gaze on the ground. “I see.”
“Try another,” she instructs, examining her manicured nails.
It quickly becomes apparent to me that my opinions don’t matter to Cecily in the slightest. I’d already had a hunch, but it’s getting harder and harder to hide my disappointment as I try on more dresses.
