Page 18 of Slapshot Bride

“Riley.”

I look up. Easton is on his feet, hands in his pockets, watching me work.

“What?”

“You are picking clothes that look like you are trying to be furniture.”

“I'm picking clothes that I can wear. That I want to wear.”

“They’re practical. I’ll give you that.”

“Yes.”

“They’re also the three fucking most boring things on that rack.”

I laugh and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.” His mouth twitches as he nods toward the rack. “I just didn’t realize we were shopping for clothes to attend a very stylish funeral.”

I laugh again, but he gestures toward the rest of the store.

“More importantly, I’m asking what you actually like. Not what you can wear or what you think you should wear. What do you look at and think, fuck yes, I want that? What makes you excited to put it on?”

I open my mouth, then close it.

He waits.

I can't remember the last time someone asked me that. I can't remember the last time I asked myself that. It's such a small question, yet I'm standing in a boutique in West Hollywood in someone else’s hoodie with my hand on a navy sweater I picked because no one would look at me twice in it, and it’s not a color Preston would have approved of, and I genuinely don't know.

“I…” My voice comes out thinner than I meant it to. “I don't know.”

“Okay.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It absolutely is.” I let the sweater drop back onto the rack and press the heel of my hand into my eye for a second. “I used to know. I think.”

“Take your time.”

I take my time.

I go back to the rack. I make myself look at it the way I used to look at things, before. Colors. Fabrics. The shapes, and designs. I pull a soft cream blouse that I would never have let Preston see me in because he would have called it bridal. I pull a pair of jeans in a faded indigo that I love on sight. I pull a green dress, deep emerald, the color Preston used to tell me to avoid because it was too much for a daytime event, which is exactly why I want it. I pull a cropped cardigan in a butter yellow that has no business being as soft as it is.

Not that one. It doesn’t fit the image we’re trying to maintain, and it washes you out. The familiar voice fills my head.

I hold it a second too long, contemplating. Then I look up and see Easton’s eyes watching intently.

Can he tell? Oh god, am I that obvious? But at the same time, his words ring in my head. What do you like?

I grab the cardigan. I want it.

I also pull a slip dress in pale champagne that I've absolutely nowhere to wear it to but I take it anyway.