Thirty of them, scattered across the property like someone took a handful of tiny houses and just… tossed them across the Texas Hill Country.
“They’re kind of adorable,” I say, craning my neck to take it all in as Miller parks.
“They’re sheds,” he says.
“They arenotsheds.”
“They’re dressed-up sheds.”
I gasp. “How dare you. These areaesthetic dwellings.”
He glances at me, deadpan. “You’re going to use that phrase again this weekend, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I feel absurdly proud of myself.
We check in, get our keys, and—yes—confirm again that we have separate rooms, which is only mildly awkward this time instead of soul-leaving-my-body levels of awkward.
Progress.
My barndominium is… actually perfect. Small, but cozy. Light wood, soft linens, a little porch with two chairs that I will absolutely not use because I will be too busy spiraling internally about Miller.
Speaking of spiraling.
I am now standing in front of the mirror, doing my hair for the third time.
Because apparently I’ve decided thattodayis the day I become a person who knows how to do hair.
Spoiler alert: I am not that person.
But I am trying.
The dress—the dress—is hanging on the back ofthe bathroom door like it knows it’s about to change my entire life.
Or, you know.
At least dramatically alter my emotional stability.
As I put it on, I give the dress a stern talking to about our expectations for the evening. This is a dress designed to inspire lust and confidence. It’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.
It’s inspired by Daenerys Targaryen’s blue Grecian dress—flowy, soft, with a draped neckline and long trailing scarves that are, in hindsight, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.
My hair is pinned back with little dragon clips I am deeply obsessed with. I have a dragon-shaped clutch. I may or may not have gone a little overboard.
Okay, I definitely went overboard.
But I never get to do this.
At work, I’m “the girl in oversized sweaters who hoards markers.” In real life, I’m… also that girl but also with yarn.
So if I have an excuse to go full fantasy heroine?
I’m taking it.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of the dress, staring at myself in the mirror.
“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “This isfine. This is normal. You are a normal person who definitely isn’t using a themed wedding as a litmus test for your romantic future.”
