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“I don’t have to eat an entire bucket of fried chicken, but I need something.”
“We’ll get some crackers from Zelda.”
I scowl at him, because the crackers the flight attendant on my plane hands out are not what I had in mind. This whole deportation and wedding thing has been stressful. I try to eat healthy most of the time, but I could really go for a cheeseburger.
“I need a sandwich,” I say.
“Bread will make you bloat. And we don’t have time to stop anywhere. We have exactly three hours to secure a dress, shoes, lingerie, and a headpiece.”
I balk. “Okay, let me stop you there. I don’t need lingerie. Or a headpiece. What is this, 1985?”
My assistant-slash-thinks-he’s-the-boss shakes his head at me. “Every bride needs lingerie. And we’ll try some delicate headpieces; I found a gorgeous one online that is decorated with the most delicate looking pearls. You can do a headpiece by itself, a headpiece and a veil, or neither.”
“Neither.”
Quentin sighs heavily, and rather dramatically, through his nose. “This is literally the one and only time in my life I’ll get to help a bride plan her big day. Just let me live my dream, okay?”
We agreed to never again say anything about my relationship with Colby being fake. We’re playing it safe. From now on, I’m a woman, completely smitten with a twenty-seven-year-old man from…
Where is he from again?
“Where’s the memo?” I ask Quentin.
He pulls a slim black binder from his messenger bag. Inside is a portfolio he prepared of things I’ll need to know about Colby. He stayed up late last night making one for each of us.
Quentin is the best assistant I could have ever imagined having. He’s become my closest friend in the time he’s worked for me.
“Indiana,” I murmur, reading through the list.
His favorite food is sushi and his favorite movie is The Godfather. Favorite ice cream, chocolate. Top vacation spot, Colorado.
I’m marrying a walking cliché. He probably likes long walks on the beach, too. But he’s saving my ass, so I can’t complain.
Our flight lands and a black SUV with tinted windows picks us up on the tarmac. After loading our things, we drive off, heading to the downtown bridal boutique we have an appointment at. As soon as we walk through the door, we’re greeted by a woman with a sleek, jet-black-colored bob who looks like a size -2.
“Ms. Pavlova, I’m Lillian,” she says. “Your assistant told me you’re on a tight schedule, so I already have a dressing room waiting for you.”
I lower my brows. “Don’t you want me to look at the dresses first?”
“Oh honey, no. Your assistant sent me photos of you and some pictures of styles you like and I already have around a dozen dresses waiting for you to try on.”
Quentin grabs onto my arm, squealing, and takes off for the private dressing room. At least one of us is excited about this.
The first dress is a pretty blush color with a lace overlay. It has a high neckline and I immediately veto it. The next one is ruched on one side and cut very low. When I walk out of the dressing room with a glare, Quentin gives Lillian a look.
“Is there a pole nearby?”
“So that’s a no,” she says smoothly. “It’s a process.”
When I put the third dress on, I step out of the dressing room and Quentin gasps.
“Sweet baby Jesus, you look stunning,” he says, tears shining in his eyes.
I check my reflection in the mirror. It’s a sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice, ornately embroidered with shimmering beads. The skirt is lined with tulle and a little poufy, making my waistline look nonexistent. And Quentin was right, the blush color really does look great on me.
I’m thirty years old, and not once have I dreamed about being a bride. I never wanted it. I’m too independent to be pinned down and too adventurous to only be with one man for the rest of my life.
In this dress, though, I see the dream I could have had. I don’t look like a cutthroat ice queen, but a beautiful, happy bride.
“Either you can buy that and wear it, or I will,” Quentin quips.
“This is the one.”
I’ll never have a real wedding day. Might as well feel gorgeous on my fake one.
That evening, I’m back in Denver, walking from the parking lot into the restaurant I’m meeting Colby at for dinner. I’m scrolling through wedding ring options on my phone, trying to decide what I want.
It still feels surreal that I’m actually getting married. Me. Married. Fake or not, I’ll have a ring on my finger. I’ll be someone’s wife.
Someone who likes rock and country music and hates no-show socks. I’m still working on memorizing the information Quentin gathered about Colby. I remembered the sushi, which is why I asked Quentin to make a reservation at the Asian fusion place we’re eating at tonight.
