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I'm flipping through a magazine, feigning interest, covertly watching the dressing room.
I can't get her out of my head, how she looked at me with pure lust in that secluded library. Her lips were like velvet against mine, her body hot and pliant as she pressed against me. I can still hear her gasping breaths and moans, begging for more as I took control.
The way she reacted, her body arching and writhing with need, is an image I can't get enough of. She was mine. And I want to make her mine again.
The thought of Gemma walking down the aisle toward someone else causes a sharp pain in my chest. All I want to do is hold her close and beg her not to go through with it.
I know my duty, but asking me to focus on that is like expecting a drowning man to ignore the water filling his lungs—impossible.
Being with Gemma felt right, but I had to end it.
My responsibility is to keep her safe, protect her physical well-being, and not yearn for something that can never be mine.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on what matters—Gemma’s safety—today at Sweet Hearts and every day until the stalker is behind bars.
The dressing room door clicks open and Gemma steps out, stunning in an off-the-shoulder lace gown with a fitted bodice and full tulle skirt. The delicate fabric contours her curvy frame perfectly.
I quickly look away and feign interest in an article about choosing the right centerpiece. But glossy pictures of peonies don’t hold my attention.
Gemma’s studying her reflection. She pivots to give me a glimpse of the open back and the train trailing behind her.
Seeing Gemma in that dress, her neck and shoulders bare, the lace hugging every curve, my pulse goes into overdrive. I want trail kisses all over that exposed skin, feel her shiver under my touch. I drag my eyes away before I lose it.
Mrs. Ainsley, the fitter, circles Gemma with a critical eye and a mouthful of pins. “This gown looks like somebody designed it for you,” she says, her voice laced with approval.
Soon, Gemma will wear one of these dresses and pledge herself to another man. A man she barely knows and doesn't want to marry. This isn't any dress. It's a symbol of what I stand to lose.
My chest tightens. The boutique walls, lined in chintzy wallpaper, feel like they're closing in on me.
Gemma forces a smile. “My father chose it. He loves the traditional ballgown look.”
The stylist circles Gemma, admiring her handiwork. “Your father has excellent taste. This style is so elegant and traditional.”
“What do you think?” she asks, giving me a twirl.
I clear my throat, weighing my words carefully. “You look beautiful.”
“I look like a cupcake.” She makes a face. “I hate all these dresses. They're so big and puffy and old-fashioned. They're not me at all.”
Mrs. Ainsley regards Gemma kindly over the rim of her glasses.
Mrs Ainsley gives her a sympathetic smile. “Choose a dress that reflects your style, dear. It’s your wedding.”
“You're absolutely right,” Gemma says, gathering the voluminous skirt in her hands. “Do you have anything sexier?”
The stylist looks taken aback. “Sexier, dear?”
“Yes. Sexy. Tight. Showing skin.” Gemma ticks off each word on her fingers. “The opposite of this. It would help if you had something fun hidden away. This store is massive.”
She wrings her hands. “Let me take a look out the back.”
Gemma hops down from the pedestal, the tulle skirt bouncing around her. I press my lips together, trying not to smile. This side of Gemma is adorable.
Mrs. Ainsley returns, holding a slinky dress with thin straps and a low V-neckline that dips nearly to the navel.
“Perfect!” Gemma crows, grabbing the dress. “Help me get out of this monstrosity.”
Gemma races to the fitting room in a flurry of tulle and flying pins. The dressmaker is muttering quietly about young girls today.
