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That makes me laugh so hard, I almost fall off the pedestal. Eva saves the day.
She helps me down and unzips the back of the dress. “You think I’m joking, but that bodice must have been inspired by a Vicky’s Secret push-up bra.
I look down at my chest. I’ve never seen so much cleavage between my B’s. “My goodness, I think you’re right.” My giggles return. “They do look rather hot.”
“It is made for you,” the designer says, with her pouty French lips.
God. What woman wouldn’t kill to have lips like that? I know I would. Maybe she’s got some trick for plumping them up too. “Why do French women have such pretty, full lips?”
This softens her feathers even more. She blushes elegantly. “It’s the way we speak. It fluffs up the lips.”
Eva’s leaning around my shoulder with a brow raised. “Maybe I need to take French lessons.”
I laugh and point at my face. “I did. Take lessons, that is. And my lips don’t look like that.”
Again, I’ve surprised Brigitte. In a baffled voice, she asks, “You… you know French?”
“Mais oui, bien sûr,” I reply to her, using my best tipsy effort to get the enunciation right.
She beams at me. “For so much champagne, you do well.”
She says something in French, thank god, I know what it is and can reply. Her look of dismay grows. The three of us share a laugh. All the tension seems to evaporate.
I’ll admit, I’m having a good time. As ridiculous as that sounds. Maybe it’s the mini-bottles of champagne that I’ve had. Or the hip-hop music Eva’s kept playing in the background just loud enough to make me want to dance.
As if suddenly inspired, Brigitte exclaims, “This dress is not for you. I know the dress!” She throws down her tape measurer, tosses her pin cushion, and runs from the room. With the force of a streak of lightning wedged into a tight-fitting gray pencil skirt, she bolts into the walk-in closet.
We can hear her whipping through the bags of gowns that fill the closet from wall to wall. When Eva says the designer is bringing the store to you, she’s not kidding.
When she returns, she’s running on her own high heels. And I seriously question how that’s possible in that skirt.
The bag over her arm is crinkling from the wind she’s generating with her speed.
“This!” she shouts, then mutters something in such rapid French that I have no hope of interpreting. But we both get that she’s enthused.
Eva and I stare at her as she unzips the elegant pink dress bag. With a flourish, the woman whips out a gown. It flutters softly and spreads across the floor in front of us.
My breath catches. My hand flutters to my throat. Eva is equally affected. She makes an elegant gasping sound. Before us is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.
The fabric has a delicate matte sheen. It’s an asymmetrical, one shoulder design. An explosion of icy beaded crystals and emerald-green stones flow over the strap and twist around the waist like delicate vines. Below, a hip-hugging skirt explodes into a train that’s a mile of sparkling, hand-beaded perfection.
I’m stunned into silence.
I’m also instantly in love.
With the dress.
Not Kieran.
Eva whistles a low tone. “Now, that’s a dress.”
“Oui. Perfection.” Brigitte blows a very French-like kiss into the air. “It will look stunning with your complexion. And your cleavage. It has built-in support,” she adds with a wink.
Eva shimmies me out of the powder-puff fairy dress, that so does not represent my life. I could care less that I’m standing here only in the audacious lace panties that Eva also had on hand for the dress fitting.
She literally thought of everything.
My eyes are probably glittering. Shiny things have that effect on me. Even though I’d never admit that to my sisters. Add a little champagne and I’m about to burst from excitement. Or maybe that’s just my bladder that’s full of champagne.
