Ignoring my snark, his expression of concern curdles into something harder. “Pearl got this for you?”
I nod.
He actually bares his teeth, then turns and storms toward the door. I fling myself at him, grabbing his arm with both hands. “Stop. What are you doing?”
“She can’t just do this shit to you!”
“Logan.”
He stops. Turns. His jaw is tight, eyes still hot with anger.
“What are you going to say? She got the wrong size? I didn’t try the dress on. She ordered it a month ago. She’ll say it’s my fault because I didn’t check to make sure it fit. And she’d be right about that.”
His shoulders drop, eyes softening. In any other circumstance, I’d love the look he’s giving me. Tender care. It’s a look I could get used to. “Is there a chance it was a mistake? I’m not defending her,” he says quickly. “I mean—ten sizes. That’s—”
“Deliberate. Yeah.” I take the dress back from him and sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the silk pooling in my lap. “I don’t have anything to wear. Forget the pictures, I don’t have anything nice for the wedding.”
He stares at me, his mind working. Then he pulls his phone out, taps it, puts it to his ear. It rings a few times before he says, “Is Sunshine with you?”
I hear a deep voice on the other line, but can’t make out the words.
“Rose needs her help. She needs a dress.” He briefly explains the situation, and I listen to my story reiterated—wrong size, no backup, wedding in a few hours—and it sounds both more and less catastrophic than it feels.
Dash complains on the other end. I hear something about the storm. Then Sunshine’s voice cuts over his, which I take as agreement. Logan thanks her and hangs up.
“Come on.”
He takes my hand and marches me out of the room. Only then do I notice his hair is damp, and he’s half-dressed in his groomsmen tux, missing the tie and jacket. It fits him like a glove—tailored, I’d guess, down to the inch. I bet Pearl took measurements.
A few minutes pass before Sunshine and Dash join us in the lobby. Dash argues with Logan about us driving in the storm, gesturing at the wall of windows and the rain coming down sideways. Sunshine ignores them both, takes my hand, and says, “Brace yourself.”
We make a run for it. Outside, the wind is mean, and we hold our hands up against the sharp rain. A vintage VW Beetle is idling in the turnaround, butter-yellow, wipers going. One of the resort workers waves Sunshine toward it and calls out to drive safe.
Once we’re tucked inside—the storm muffled now, the windows already fogging at the edges—I turn to her.
“That was convenient.”
“I called ahead.” She checks her mirrors, unbothered. “Perks of having friends who work here. Jay’s manning the lot, but with the resort closed off for the wedding and the weather keeping everyone in, he’s basically just sitting on his hands.”
“Why doesn’t he just go home?”
She side-eyes me. “The man needs a paycheck, storm or no storm. Besides. Free valet.”
I sink back against the seat. “Sorry. Thank you for this. Logan didn’t really get into the details—”
“Your bridesmaid dress is the wrong size, and your only other dress is stained with wine.”
“Yep. That about sums it up.”
“Well, most of the local shops are closed because of the storm, but Raúl’s little sister is about your size. I texted her, and she said you can borrow something.”
“Wow. That’s… incredibly kind. And generous. And damn, you work fast.”
Sunshine grins, then puts the car into gear. She drives the manual like a pro, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick.
“Should we be doing this?” I ask as we cross the bridge, a wave crashing up through the grating beneath us.
“We’ll be fine. We’re not getting the full hurricane, we won’t get more water than this. Still, we should be quick.” She glances at the ocean, then back at the road. “Storm should break by tonight, though. It’ll be clear by tomorrow, I reckon.”
