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“Bailey, we need to make a stop first.” He punches something in his phone that I presume are directions.
The SUV takes a turn and heads in the direction of the lights, like a moth to a flame. The traffic converges on the strip, and everything slows to a crawl. My eyes focus on the window, and in the reflection, I can see Darren staring at me, his hand rubbing at his jaw, but then the car moves again, and the image is replaced with lights from a nearby billboard.
Bailey pulls the SUV down a side street towards one of the hotels and stops at a portico. He gets out swiftly and pulls my door open before I can do it myself. Darren nudges me, and I step out onto the sidewalk, not really sure where we are or why. In a gentlemanly gesture, he holds out his arm for me to take, and I stare at him until he grabs my arm and pulls me with him.
I look over my shoulder to see Bailey pull the car away. We walk past all of the poker tables, the chirping slot machines, and into the heart of the casino, where the lights are dimmed and Roman statues line the walkway. When I look up, a fresco takes up the entirety of the ceiling. I’ve been here before with Cleo, window shopping, but their expensive price tags are beyond my means.
Along the walkway are designer shops with handbags and jewelry, art galleries, and expensive restaurants. Darren stops, and I almost careen into him. My stomach drops when I see what shop we’re standing in front of.
“You can’t be serious!” I exclaim, looking inside at all of the designer wedding gowns.
“We’re getting married, Evangeline. You need a wedding dress, don’t you?” His flippant tone annoys me.
“I’m not going in there,” I grit and stomp my foot.
“You signed the contract,” he says stiffly.
“Nothing in there says I have to wear a wedding dress.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“You made me get down on one knee,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I owe Alistair for buying everyone’s breakfast, no thanks to you.”
I can’t help but laugh, but it’s quickly replaced with a scowl.
“You find that funny?” he asks, a hint of a smile on his face as he looks at me.
“Nothing makes me happier than to see you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t have to resist every kind gesture I offer,” Darren says.
“You think forcing me into marrying you is kind?” I ask, exasperated.
He rubs his chin. “Not when you put it that way. Look, most women would kill to wear a dress by this designer.” He gestures to the shop window where fitted and full-skirted glittering wedding dresses are displayed, as if I’m supposed to swoon all over them.
“You like them so much, maybe you should wear one.” I flick my hand at the dresses, realizing they must have a hefty price tag, and decide to make my way inside.
One of the saleswomen sees me walking through the aisle. I can tell she’s judging me by the way she looks at my distressed jeans and sneakers with a wary eye. “Can I help you?” she greets, plastering a fake smile on her face.
“Yes, can I see your most expensive dress?” I stop in front of her.
She looks between me and Darren as if she’s trying to figure out if we belong. Perhaps after recognizing Darren’s expensive suit, or smelling his monied cologne, she relents.
“What size do you need?”
I look over at Darren, ignoring her snobbish attitude towards me. “You look like a fourteen to me.”
“Excuse me?” Darren looks offended.
I reassess him. “You do have a dainty waist for a man. Maybe a twelve? What do you think?” I ask the saleswoman.
“Well, I’m—I’m not sure,” she stutters.
“She’s clearly joking,” Darren tells her and then turns me away from the saleswomen. “I do not have a dainty waist,” he whispers through gritted teeth.
I smile.
“I’ll just give you two a minute,” the saleswoman says.
“You’re being difficult.”
