Page 25 of Last Minute

Ellie

We get an early start the next morning, even though it’s our shortest leg. But the plan is to go shopping for our formal wear for the wedding once we get to Boston, and I want to have plenty of time to enjoy that experience.

Erik is quiet as he sips his coffee as we drive. I learned yesterday not to talk to him until he’s had time to process his caffeine, so we’re enjoying the silence.

When his murder face shifts into his usual RBF, I venture forth with a little bit of light conversation.

“I found a few places we can try for formal wear. Do you have a preference which one we go to first?” I rattle off the names of the three stores I found through a Google search.

Erik shakes his head. “I’m not very familiar with the area. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You’re not from around Boston?”

Erik looks at me with a troubled expression, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far when he answers, “Mom didn’t move out here until after the divorce. I grew up in upstate New York.”

From everything I’ve gathered about his father and the rocky relationship Erik has with his mother, I can tell that this topic of conversation is a hard one for him. I shouldn’t poke at it, especially as we’re getting closer to attending his mother’s wedding.

“That’s neat. I’ve heard upstate New York is beautiful. I’ve never been there, of course, but I’ve heard stories.”

Erik’s face eases back into a neutral expression. “It is. My dad and I used to travel all over the place to go camping in the most remote locations so we could observe the stars.”

I smile, glad that I could pull the conversation back to something that makes Erik feel comfortable.

When our conversation lapses again, Erik reaches forward and turns on the radio. We haven’t had music in the car yet, and this is a surprise.

“Feel free to pick whatever station you want. I don’t care what we listen to.”

I lean forward and try out the presets before starting to scan for other stations. The music is both foreign and familiar. There are some songs that play on the stations we have in Brysard, but so much of the music is new to me. When I can’t find anything I like well enough to listen to for the remaining drive, I turn the radio off and settle back into my seat.

“I don’t mind the silence,” I say as I look out the window to watch the changing landscape.

An hour and a half later, we pull into the parking lot of the first of three bridal boutiques I bookmarked on my map.

Men have it easy when it comes to formalwear. While there are a few styles of tuxedos to choose from, their options are limited to a handful of cuts and colors of bow ties and pocket squares.

Ladies, on the other hand…

Not only do we have to fiddle with dress cut, length, necklines, sleeve lengths, and hemlines, the entire rainbow is on the table when it comes to color.

I’ve been stuffed into enough uncomfortable designer gowns for balls and state events that I know what I’m looking for when the attendant takes us to the section of the boutique with colorful bridesmaid dresses. I’ve also been styled long enough to know what colors work for me because finding things to match my hair color—not quite fire red, but not brown enough to be auburn—isn’t always the easiest.

Knowing I don’t have the time to get something custom ordered, or even tailored, is a thrill. Having a chance to choose something and not have the time for other people to nitpick it apart is something I don’t experience often—or ever.

Satisfied that I’m safe as I browse through the racks of dresses, Erik steps away toward the area with tuxedos, and a young woman steps over to him with a hungry look in her eye.

An unfamiliar emotion swells in me as I watch her put her hand on Erik’s forearm—that same forearm that I traced constellations on two days ago. I stuff down the jealousy and turn back to the gowns. Erik can flirt with whoever he wants. He’s not mine. He may be my executive protection agent, but he’s not beholden to me in any other way.

I’m still sifting through dresses in my size—why can’t women’s clothing be listed by measurement like men’s?—when Erik walks around the pile I’ve unceremoniously set on the floor that I’m interested in trying on.

If Erik were an actor and could pull off a debonair British accent, he would be the perfect fit to play James Bond. As he strides toward me, I can hear his voice in my head.

“Bond. James Bond.”

Until I realize that Erik has actually said those words, and I’m not imagining things. That tuxedo fits him like a glove, all the way down to the shiny shoes.

I let out a very princess-like, “uh,” as I watch him step in front of me and tuck a hand into his pocket.

“What do you think, Ellie?” he says in a low, husky voice.

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