Page 68 of Love You Truly

In fact, I should be excited. This is the closest I’m likely to get to a real wedding, and at least I’m going through the motions with a gorgeous guy who treats me better than all the men I’ve dated in the past. I might as well enjoy it.

Sipping from a champagne flute that PJ deposited silently before slipping away to have her makeup done, I choose not to dwell on the irony of my life. I mean, sure, Dash has been acting like the model fiancé, defending my honor, attending to my every sexual need, and listening to me describe my hopes and dreams and taking them seriously. He’s exactly the kind of man I would actually consider marrying, and the sham of a wedding we’re about to enact couldn’t have less to do with reality.

“Up or down?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.

“Sorry?” I meet the eyes of my hair stylist in the mirror.

“She was asking whether I think you should wear your hair up,” Beatrix says as the stylist piles my blown-dry hair on top of my head.

It’s early afternoon as I sit in the bridal suite at the Inn at Buttercup Hill, where Dash insisted we spend our honeymoon night later on. He also insisted I use the suite all day to get ready.

Beatrix took over from there, ordering in platters of finger foods and a bar cart filled with drinks, everything from sparkling water and orange juice to wine and champagne. My college bestie has been having her nails done with PJ and my mom on one side of the room while Beatrix hangs with me and confers with the stylist like I’m not even here.

“Well, don’t bother asking me. Not like I have an opinion.” I don’t mean to sound snarky, but Beatrix herself admitted she sometimes gets carried away and forgets she’s the event planner, not the bride. And I know how it feels to be a woman in her thirties in a small town where some of the love matches seem to have been forged at the swing sets in preschool. If she wants to live vicariously as a bride through the events she plans, I’m certainly not about to stop her.

“Sorry. She’s asking both of us what we think, but I guess I answered first.”

I’m just nervous about getting fake-married, and I shouldn’t be taking it out on the nearest person, but that’s what’s happening. The neckline of my long, silk sheath dress cuts low, and I suddenly worry that it’s too sexy for a wedding dress, even though it is, in fact, a wedding dress.

“You don’t need to apologize. Sorry if I’m being a bitch.”

Beatrix laughs. “You’re not. You’re being a bride.” She leans in and whispers so the stylist can’t hear. “And doing a good job of faking it.” Straightening up, she meets my eyes in the mirror and winks.

I give her a closed-lipped smile that masks how I feel, which is uncomfortable in this too-sexy virginal dress and a little unsure I’m doing the right thing by marrying Dash for the good of my future business dreams. But I’ll just smile my way through it. I’m good at that.

If Beatrix and I had stayed better friends since high school—and if she wasn’t related to the man I’m fake-marrying—I’d admit that I can be bitchy without being a bride. I might even admit that I have confounding feelings for my groom and ask her what to do about them. But I’m not sure how Beatrix feels about her brother doing me this favor even though he’s assured me his siblings are supportive. So I say nothing. Better that she thinks we’re marching forward in this charade for the good of our family businesses and keep things simple.

The stylist continues piling my hair on top of my head and uses a few bobby pins to keep it there. Then she pulls down some long tendrils around my face. I take in the image in the mirror. On one hand, I look like so many brides I’ve seen in so many social media feeds. It’s like she’s given me the insta-bride updo that assures I’ll look the part.

I should love it. Add a little tiara and I’ll look like a little girl’s dream of a perfect bride. But this fake wedding has been so far away from perfect bride territory that I just can’t do it.

“I think I prefer it down,” I tell them. “Is that very un-bridey?”

The stylist stops fussing with my hair and lets it fall down my back. As the picture-perfect bride image falls away, I instantly feel more like myself.

“It should be however you want,” she says, arranging my hair over my shoulders and plugging in her curling iron. “I think we could add some soft waves. What do you think?”

“Soft waves sound good.”

Beatrix nods.

I sip my champagne and hope it will calm my nerves.

Almost like she can read my thoughts, Beatrix meets my eyes in the mirror. “It’s still nerve-wracking, isn’t it?”

I watch my brow crease in the mirror and unconsciously bite my lip, nodding.

“Hey, how about a bathroom break?” Beatrix asks me, standing up and gesturing with a tilt of her head before I agree.

The stylist doesn’t have to be told twice. “I’ll get some coffee. We have plenty of time,” she says, dismissing me. It’s like both of them see something I don’t, but as soon as I stand from the chair and start following Beatrix out of the suite’s main room, a cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck.

“Yeah, it is nerve-wracking,” I mutter, not fully understanding why I can stand in front of a room full of men and present my business ideas, but the idea of wearing a frilly dress for a few hours and acting like a bride has me flustered.

Beatrix opens the door to the bridal suite and walks into the hallway, and even though there’s a perfectly good bathroom in the suite, I blindly follow her lead. She walks quickly, and I need to gather my wedding dress and hold it against my hips so it doesn’t drag on the floor. I’m still barefoot, and the dress is hemmed for my three-inch heels. The last thing I need is to trip.

As soon as we’re away from the bridal suite, I relax slightly. Too many people in that room. Too much anticipation of the big wedding.

Beatrix bypasses the public restroom in the hallway and ushers me outside through a glass door leading to a private patio. I haven’t spent much time at Buttercup Hill, so I follow her to wherever she plans to take me.

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