She tugs at one form-fitting three-quarter sleeve and then the other, shaking her head. “It’s like I can’t breathe. And I’m being skewered each time I try.” Then she grips her ribs under her breasts where the dress cinches in with an artificial waistline. “Wires, Beckett. No one should be hemmed in with wires. They’re in my hair and under my boobs?—”
Hattie lifts a hand and almost touches the rose buds tucked into her up-do, but she stops herself, blinking rapidly. “I’m not supposed to touch it, but the hair pins might as well be pitchforks in my skull.” She balls her hand into a shaking fist and rasps, voice strained. “I don’t want to cry. Not now. I?—”
“Hattie, honey. Let me help.” I offer her my hands, and she grabs them with both of hers, clutching tight. I glance at the exit sign behind her and then steer her in that direction. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going? I have to line up in like two minutes?—”
I hit the push bar and lead her outside.
We step out into the sunset. The early November sky is cloudless, and on the west side of the church, the low sun drenches Hattie in golden light. Her eyes widen as she takes it in, the hazel of her eyes flickering in the bronze rays, and she sucks in a deep breath.
I clasp my hands behind her nearly bare neck, massaging it firmly. A sigh leaves her.
“Point to where it hurts most,” I say gently.
She closes her eyes and jabs a finger over the tip of her right ear. Locks of her hair have been looped around rose stems, and with the help of the blazing sunset, I see the glint of maybe a half dozen pins.
With one finger, I trace her scalp just below the hairdresser’s construction site. “May I?”
“God, yes!”
Carefully, but wasting no time, I tug gently at the heads of a few of the hairpins, pulling each back just a fraction, but at the sound of another sigh, my guess is the relief must be immediate.
Hattie lets me spin her around so that the light falls on her opposite side, and when I make the same adjustments, I don’t miss the shiver that runs down her neck.
“When this is over,” I promise, working the last hair pin, “I’ll pull each one out and fling them into the street.”
Hattie huffs a laugh. “I don’t usually approve of littering, but as long as we can toss the bra with them, I’m good.” Her hands go back to the band under her breasts as she twists and wriggles with clear discomfort.
I check my watch. It’s 5:52. Maybe not enough time, but it’s worth a try.
I step directly behind her. “Do you trust me?”
Hattie whips her gaze over her shoulder at me. “Are you kidding? Of course I do.”
“I have to hurry,” I say, gripping the tab of her zipper. “Permission to?—”
“Just do it, Beck,” she orders. “Whatever you’re going to do!”
I unzip the sage green gown, exposing Hattie’s lovely spine and shoulder blades. Even though I have to work fast, my mind still takes time to imagine slowly kissing my way down her back.
When the dress starts to slip from her shoulders, I gather my wits. “Hold it up. Just a sec?—”
I reach into my pocket and produce my folding knife. “This might tickle,” I warn, running my fingers under the elastic of her bra until I feel the dizzyingly soft swell of her breast, just under her arm—and the offending underwire.
I tug the fabric toward me. “Hold still, angel.” The knife’s tip is sharp, so I only make the tiniest piercing in the fabric. A moment later, the tip of the metal ribbing pokes through, and I tug it out.
“Oh my God!” Hattie exclaims. “What—how did you—is that a knife?”
Hattie cranes her gaze over her shoulder as I make quick work of the underwire on the other side. The metal Us clatter to the ground as I zip her up.
“Let’s go.”
I yank open the cathedral’s side door to a sea of silvery sage.
“There she is!” someone cries before a half-dozen bridesmaids swarm Hattie. I have just enough time to stow my pocketknife before curious eyes spot me.
One of the women thrusts a bouquet into Hattie’s hands. I’m about to slip past the throng of women and try to get back to my seat before the procession starts when a hand closes around my elbow.
