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“Fine, but if I am going to be the monster bride, you have to as well.” She propped her fists on her hips and straightened out to her full five foot one inch height. “That means you have to come to all the dinner samples and cake testing appointments that are lined up over the next few days.”
Dean laced his fingers together behind his head and grinned at her. “Jillybean, you say that like it’s some sort of punishment. You’re telling me I get to have free food and cake? I hate to break it to ya, but that sounds like a great night out to me.”
She lifted one brow and gave him a smile that managed to unsettle him and, oddly, excite him all at once. “But remember my mother will be there front and center because, trust me, Sparky, if we choose the chicken marsala, but she thinks the panko breaded chicken is a better option, you better believe that fight will be on.”
He turned on the couch and rose to his feet. “The right kind of food can make me ignore everything. Even the Ice Queen’s death glare and annoying voice.”
Jillian folded her arms across her chest. The corners of her lips twitched with the laughter he knew she was holding in. No matter her mood, he could almost always draw out at least a giggle from her. “But will your brother let you free for all the millions of decision planning moments you need to be present for?”
Yeah, she would definitely think he needed to go to Wyatt for permission. He’d never actually told her… “Trust me, that’s not an issue.”
She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “What do you do there, anyway, Sparky? I can’t really picture you mucking out stalls all day.” She poked him in the ribcage. “But after your third major change, maybe you picked that instead.”
“Don’t worry that pretty little head, Jillybean. I will be there with bells on for any and every decision I need to give my expert and desperately needed opinion on.” The mental list of the things he needed to tell her had another bullet point labeled “career” added to it. Right below the bright, glaring, blinking red “tell her you love her” that held the number one spot.
***
Jillian
Present Day
The third lace gown her mother had picked for her itched more than the previous two. It was the very last thing she’d ever pick out for herself, but as she had with so many other details, she mostly let her mother have free rein, although listening to the complaints about buying off the rack because of the tight timeline nearly sent her over the edge. And definitely drove her to remind her mother, once again, the role she played in everything that led to making this necessary.
Helena Monroe had actually managed to shut up for an entire five minutes. Damn near miraculous.
Despite her silent assertions that she absolutely would not wear the latest dress her mother had chosen, she exited the changing room with the attendant in tow to fluff out the chapel length train. She stepped up on the platform surrounded by full-length mirrors on three sides to the ooh’s and ahh’s of her bridal party—the daughters of her mother’s friends, not anyone Jillian actually hung out with.
What she wouldn’t give to have Angela sitting there instead of the three nearly identical, perfectly coifed heads. Not only because she adored her friend, but because Angela would undoubtedly be sporting khaki shorts and an olive tank top. Practical when they were working in the field, but a wardrobe staple for the other woman that would drive her mother into an apoplectic fit.
Instead of someone she loved standing by her side, her attendants were hand chosen by Helena and fit the social ideal the mother required.
Ainsley, Presley, and Bridget had been acquaintances in school and girls she’d given small, congenial smiles to at social functions they’d all been required to attend, but there was a glaring difference between them and Jillian. They all were cookie cutter copies of their own mothers, happy to gossip about who was seen with who at a garden party supposedly organized to raise money to build wells in Africa, but really were designed to rub elbows with all the right people.
And talk about all the wrong ones.
Jillian turned dutifully on the pedestal and frowned at her reflection. Nope. Not happening. “I hate it,” she declared as she hefted the skirt and stepped onto the carpeted floor. As she crossed to the dressing room to rid herself of the itchy material she was brought to a stop by one of the gowns hanging.
Ivory colored satin immediately caught her eye and she asked the clerk if she could see the full gown, but when the assistant helping her in and out of the various fluffy confections pulled the dress free from between others, Jillian had the feeling of perfection she’d heard described on the trash reality shows she forced Dean to watch with her. Simple, elegant, and timeless. The exact dream gown she never actually knew she wanted until she saw it.
She caught the arm of the girl who was probably the same age as her. “I want to try that on.”
The bateau neckline led to fitted sleeves that ended just below the elbow. A thin line of identical satin ribbon cinched the waist and the material curved to hug her hips before flaring into a trumpet skirt with a train just slightly longer than the chapel length one she’d just worn.
“This is it.”
She breathed out the words so softly the worker leaned in closer and asked her to repeat herself. “This is the one.” This time her voice reflected the confidence she felt in making the proclamation.
The decision was cemented by the silence as she stepped from the back room. Every member of her bridal party sat with mouths agape until they simultaneously erupted in squeals and giggles and nods of approval.
All except Helena, who coldly glared at her from across the room as she stood on the elevated surface. Jillian lifted her chin in spite of the clear disapproval that managed to make her feel five years old again. And like an impossible failure.
Until the older clerk discreetly walked over to her mother and whispered something in her ear that made Helena visibly brighten and actually smile.
“What did she say?” She couldn’t hold back the question as she sat beside her mother in the backseat of the town car as they rode back to her house.
Helena jolted slightly as if Jillian’s words had pulled her from a trance. “Excuse me?”
Jillian fiddled with the hem of her emerald tunic top. “At the bridal store you weren’t very happy with my gown until the owner said something to you. What did she say?”
