Page 121 of The Temporary Fiancée
Cecily approves of an uncomfortable, stiff gown with a train so long that it drags on the ground behind me—even though I hate it. I trip over it three times on my way out of the fitting room, but she doesn’t care about that.
She also disapproves of pretty much everything I like. Any dress that is too modern or slim gets immediately tossed aside. She doesn’t like anything that takes stylistic risks, or strays toofar from the classic wedding dress. Everything I like ends up in the reject pile, much to my dismay.
It’s not real,I keep telling myself.None of this matters. You’re never going to wear the damn thing, anyway. Just keep your mouth shut and get through this.
If I stand my ground too firmly, I know I’ll get in a fight with Cecily, and that’s the last thing I need right now. There’s a stilted, formal politeness between the two of us that I need to keep up.
I try on eleven dresses. The designer’s assistant, who has been assigned to help us with our dress search, takes photos of me in each one, dancing around me to get every angle. I’ll choose the best ones later to post to my social media accounts.
That might be the only choice I get to make today.
Once I’ve tried on the last one and changed back into my street clothes, Cecily and I go over the options. Well,Cecilygoes over the options. My favorite is still the first dress I tried on, but she’s made it clear that one is a non-starter, so it’s hard to feel invested in any of the others.
Eventually, she holds up the one that I hated the most: the pure white one with the stiff fabric and long train.
“This will do,” she says, with an air of mild satisfaction. “What do you think, dear?”
She lifts the dress to show it to me. Several responses bubble up on my tongue:that one was my least favorite. Were you even listening to me at all? Why does it have to be the most uncomfortable dress of the bunch?
But I keep my lips pursed and nod. It’s not worth the argument. I’m tired, fed up, and I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible.
On our way out of the building, I hear the now-familiar snap of a camera shutter coming from across the street. When I follow the sound, I can see a man crouched behind a car on the oppositecurb, the lens of his camera focused on Cecily and I as we leave the boutique.
Perfect.
I turn to Cecily, unable to look her in the eye. “Well… thanks for your time. Reed said he’d send a car.”
She sniffs, looking down her nose at me. “Of course he did.” There’s a cold pause between us, then she turns on her heel and strides down the sidewalk. I stand there, watching her, until she climbs into a waiting limousine.
As soon as her car drives away, I let out a breath, and my formal mask slips off.
Reed’s driver takes me back to The Luxe, and on the drive, I lean against the window, watching the city slide by.
I thought that keeping a stiff upper lip was the way to get through this without losing my cool at Cecily, but I definitely feel worse in the aftermath. I keep replaying all the different times when I wish I’d put my foot down.
By the time the car pulls up outside of The Luxe’s glass doors, I want nothing more than to run inside, go to my room, and knit to take my mind off of the whole disastrous situation.
Unfortunately, my path is block as I approach the front doors.
By Martin Keller.
At first, he doesn’t seem to notice me. He’s still dressed in business casual attire, as if he just came from the office, but there’s a shadow across his jaw. He’s usually clean-shaven; he must have let his morning routine go a little. He looks disheveled, agitated.
I stop dead in my tracks, turning to look over my shoulder. I’m hoping the driver will still be there, and he’ll be able to come out and help me. No such luck—the car is already gone, cruising down the street.
And suddenly, Keller is in my face, close enough to almost touch me. He looks furious. It’s an expression I recognize well from my time working for him, but I never thought I would have to see it again.
“You,” he growls.
“What do you want?” I shrink away from him instinctively.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing, huh? Running off to some reporter.”
I blink, confused. “I was just defending myself. You were the one who?—”
“Some reporter woman was at the office the other day, poking around. Asking all my employees what I’m like as a boss, because apparently, you told her a bunch of bullshit about me.” His scowl deepens, and he steps even closer to me, getting in my face.
I try to look him in the eye, but it’s difficult. All I want to do is step past him, but when I try, he blocks my path again. “I was just responding to what you said about me,” I protest.
