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It did have a train, but a delicate and subtle one.
Around me, the redhead fussed, pinching here and pulling there. “It doesn’t even need alterations. It’s like it was made for you.”
“That’s because it was. I’ll take it.” I hiked up the skirt and scuffed over to my purse, got out my plastic, and handed it to the girl on my way back to the dressing room.
Behind me, Sandra said, “The first one you tried on, Rachel? Seriously? The first freaking dress you tried on?”
“Do you want me to try them all on and then buy this one?” I called back without breaking my shuffling stride. “Because that’s what will happen. This is the one. I knew it when I saw it, and so did you.”
I went into the dressing room and peeled the gown off over my head, then took my time straightening it out and positioning it on its hanger.
“Rache, I’m sorry.” Sandra’s voice came from right outside the door. “I love the dress.”
“I love the dress,” I said, still pissed. “That’s what counts, since I’m the one wearing it.”
“I’m just… worried, okay? It’s weird how little interest you’re showing in the wedding.”
Because I don’t fucking want to mess up what we have!
The thought burst through me so suddenly and with so much force that I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep myself from blurting it aloud. I did not want to mess up what Mason and I had. What we had was damn near perfect.
Well, what the hell do we want then? Inner Bitch asked.
“Well,” I whispered, “I definitely want to marry Mason.” I took the gown from the hook on the wall. “And I definitely want to do it wearing this dress.”
That was going to have to be enough for the moment.
Chapter 8
MASON
The Saratoga Springs Police Department was in a brick building that had to be a century old. Its entry door had fancy brickwork arching over the top. The windows were painted with old-fashioned lettering. Nice. There was a small-town yankee feel about the place. Kind of New England, but not quite.
Mason waited for Jeremy in the car, talking to Myrtle the whole time. They’d stopped for an extensive walk in one of the town parks, and she’d seemed to really enjoy it. She’d stopped to sniff a hundred times, did her business, the usual stuff. Jeremy played with her in the fallen leaves. It took all of twenty minutes to wear her out.
“You gonna be all right out here for a minute, Myrt?” He cracked two windows and had parked in the shade.
She settled deeper into her seat. It took multiple rounds of shuffling and snuffling, but eventually she found a position she liked and curled up like a shrimp with her head resting on her paws. She started to snore before her eyes even closed all the way.
“Good then.” Mason tucked the white paper plate on which he had written, “Do not disturb! Anxiety-prone senior bulldog. Interior is cool, temp is monitored, car alarm is loud, owner is cop,” underneath the windshield wiper blade.
Jeremy pulled into the parking spot behind him. His Firebird was better than ever. He’d been upgrading it a piece at a time. It still wore its original paint job, and the firebird spread on the hood was old and faded. He was saving up to have it restored to its original, with maybe a few custom touches.
He’d inherited Mason’s motor-head, for sure. And his career. His kid was a rookie cop, with his first job at the Broome County Sheriff’s Department. Josh— Josh was turning out different. He didn’t yet know for sure just how.
He got out of the car and met Jere on the sidewalk. “We haven’t even had a chance to talk,” Mason said. “How are you? You good?”
“I’m not going to drink, if that’s what you mean. Nothing could make me take a drink until I know Misty’s safe. I might need a meeting later, but right now, I’m focused on her, not me. Not my wounded little heart.”
“You’re a good man, Jere, but I really was just asking how you’re doing.”
He looked up, grinned a little. “Sorry. I’m a raw nerve.”
“I know. I get it. I’m proud of you, you know that?”
“I do know that. I’m your phone background.”
“Yeah,” Mason said. His chest was full.
