Page 30 of Story Of My Heart

“Good thing I’m always around,” Piper laughs, before her eyes narrow at the expression on my face. She reaches a hand over to my chair, gently squeezing mine. “News flash—being a cornstar isn’t a life goal of mine.”

My life goal used to be to get out of Sunset Lake. Now, it’s become something else entirely. I’m finding with each passing day, that nothing brings me more joy than making Piper smile. And that feels very dangerous indeed.

Chapter Sixteen

Piper

“Who got engaged again, exactly?”

I’ve been staring at my open suitcase for the better part of twenty minutes, flicking uselessly through the small selection of clothes I brought along with me, haphazardly packed in the half hour Tate gave me before we left Minneapolis. Nothing screams formal. Nothing screams engagement party at all. I could maybe go with the white dress again in a pinch, but from the tone of Fallon’s invitation, it’s too casual, and I know it’s cliche, but I hate repeating outfits.

“Gibson, my brother,” Tate answers, lounging on the sofa. I envy the versatility of menswear. He can wear the same button down and slacks to an engagement party that he wears at a luncheon, as long as they aren’t wrinkled, and no one will bat an eye. All he has to do is slip on a tie and suddenly he looks like the cover of GQ.

“This one is the mechanic?”

He grunts in response, scrolling through his social media feed. “Not anymore. Apparently, he’s been working undercover as a voiceover actor. His bride to be is a best-selling author and aspiring screenwriter. They’re both trying to make it out in LA.”

I stare at the clothes one last time, before falling onto the bed in a heap of defeat.

“So you’re not the only Story with another story,” I chuckle at my own play on words, but when I stare into my suitcase again I groan. “I told you we weren’t going to be here for just three days.”

“You were right. I was wrong. Happy?”

“Not exactly. If you’d have told me that we were going to be going to an engagement party, I’d have packed a nice dress.” Watching him continue to be absorbed in his phone is making me twitchy. I have to focus my eyes on the ceiling to quell the urge to wallop him with a pillow. Is this what real couples feel like? It’s like he’s not listening to me. Like he doesn’t even see me unless we’re naked.

I blow my bangs skyward. “Now… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Answer the door.”

His reply is so cavalier and unexpected that I don’t quite know what to do with it. “What?”

Before he says anything else, there’s a quick sharp burst of knocks at the door. I turn and glare at Tate, certain that something is fishy about this. “Suddenly, you’re a psychic?”

He shrugs, watching me nervously pad over to the door. I open it to find a very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Fallon.

“Are you here to solve my dress problem?” I ask tentatively.

Fallon beams in response. “Grab your purse. I’m driving.”

As I start to reach for my things on the nightstand, I see Tate waving a piece of thick silver plastic in the air toward me. At the very least, he was smart enough to not choose the Amex Black card, but the idea of him just waving money around doesn’t really fall in line with the ‘totally normal, not a billionaire’ narrative we’re trying to cement here. I pretend not to see it, absentmindedly toying with my shoelaces, resolved to pay for things myself and have him reimburse me behind the scenes. Fallon isn’t so easily distracted, and she swipes the card from his hand before I can protest.

“Thanks, bro,” she sings, slipping it into her wallet, then linking her arm in mine and leading me toward the door.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he calls behind us, and Fallon laughs brightly.

His sister isn’t very forthcoming about where she’s taking me. All I can get out of her before the Jeep comes to a stop somewhere downtown is that I should think of her as my fairy godmother for the day. I certainly thought I looked better than a pre-makeover Cinderella, mopping floors and sweeping out chimneys, but I’m thankful for the gesture, nonetheless. Even if Tate is footing the bill.

After a parallel parking job so ruthlessly efficient it leaves me both rattled and awestruck, Fallon leads me up a concrete curb in front of a small brick row of storefronts. The one on the end, Frocks with Faith, is her final destination. She’s briefly distracted by a sales rack out front, thumbing through a row of colorful cardigans marked down half-off. Humming along, she holds out a three-quarter length sleeve cerulean sweater for me to examine before she catches herself, remembering why we came here in the first place. She shelves the sweater with a wistful backward glance, then sallies forth through the door, the bell on top tinkling as we enter.

“Hey there,” a mousey looking brunette girl smiles warmly at Fallon, coming around the counter to envelope her in a soft hug. She doesn’t look the way one would imagine an employee trying to sell clothes would generally look. Wearing a modest khaki skirt that goes all the way down to her calves, with the requisite white cardigan and simple loafers, she looks like she should work with the elderly or teach bible school. “How can I help you today?”

“Piper, Faith. Faith, Piper.” Fallon waves a hand back and forth between us. “This is my brother’s girlfriend, who I’m sure you’ve heard about. She’s going to Gibson and Avery’s party tonight. We need something that will go with black and rhinestone fuck me heels. Tate isn’t quite where he should be in my honest opinion. He needs a little push.”

Faith reddens immediately, swallowing with a short cough. “Fallon, I don’t know what that means. Please be more specific.”

“Sexy dress. Cleavage. Leg. Maybe even backless.” Fallon explains with a roll of her eyes and a yawn. Even the word ‘sexy’ makes Faith’s skin crawl, and Fallon enjoys every minute of the torment. “What do you have?”

Her friend blinks, mouth opening and closing as she fiddles with a strand of hair that’s fallen from her severe bun. She starts to make a noise of protest, but Fallon cuts her off with a laugh, striding over to a rack of dresses along the wall. Her arms disappear into the folds of clothing, flipping through the garments with purpose, pausing occasionally to look over my body with an unsettling intensity, glancing back and forth between the dress in her hands and the approximate size of my measurements.

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