Page 63 of Unlock My Heart

Chapter Twenty

Sienna

Eighteen-years-old

“It’s puckered in the back.” I angle the phone so Ms. Gail can see the problem with my lace veil.

“Uneven tension.”

I blow a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun out of my face. “No, I’m evenly tensed about this.”

“Tension control, my dear. It takes practice. You’ll learn,” she promises.

“But I don’t have time for practice; I have less than a month to finish my collection. Why did I choose lace?” I wail.

“Drop the thread and bobbins and walk away. Your lace isn’t the only thing puckered.”

“Ms. Gail.” I choke on a laugh.

After she walks me back from the edge and guides me through an hour of rework, my veil is looking much better. “Come to my apartment tomorrow, and I’ll help you with the finishing touches.”

“Ms. Gail, how can I ever repay you?”

“Invite me to the wedding, and we’ll call it even,” she decides.

“I’m not even engaged,” I protest.

“Why not?”

I giggle. “Ms. Gail, you’re a terrible influence.”

“Pfft. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

The video ends, and I run my fingers over the white lace. On a whim, I gently place it on my head. Admiring myself in the mirror, my eyes lock on Fabien.

“You’re going to wear that for me on our wedding day.” His eyes are soft as he takes me in.

My cheeks flame at being caught. “I don’t recall being asked.”

He crosses the room, draping his arms around me from behind, watching me in the mirror. “Tonight, after dinner with my family, I’m going to tell my old man about our plans.”

“What plans?”

“We’re getting married.” He tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss along my fluttering pulse beneath the veil. “You’ll finish school and open your fashion design studio.”Another kiss. “And in a few years, you’ll give me a son.” He smiles against my neck.

“And if I give you a daughter?” I challenge.

“Then she’ll be the most spoiled princess in all of NOLA,” he declares, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“What about me?” I playfully pout.

“The most spoiled queen in all of NOLA.”

“That’s more like it.” Not that Fabien doesn’t already spoil me rotten.

The sound of jazz has me tilting my head. “Second line?” The music is different than the procession Fabien and I listened to outside the hotel; this feels more somber. With an uneasy feeling, I remove the veil and gingerly place it on the mannequin’s head.

“Second line to heaven.” Fabien takes my hand, leading me to the terrace. “A funeral procession,” he explains gently.