Page 112 of Cashmere Ruin

“Your take?”

“Yes! I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, actually. Since you…” She gestures awkwardly at her shoulder.

“Since I got shot?” I fill in.

“That, yes. Back then, your shirt was ruined, but your jacket could still be salvaged, yeah?” She starts walking around excitedly, her mile-a-minute mind struggling to get the words out all at once. “So I’ve been wondering: what if you’d been wearing a different jacket? One that was light, stylish, but bulletproof? Because vests don’t really cover your shoulders, and anyway you’re not always gonna be wearing one, but you know what youaregonna be wearing no matter what?”

“A suit jacket?” I guess.

She snaps her fingers. “Bingo. A suit jacket. So this vest is kind of like… an experiment? I was thinking, if you like it, I could try to do more with it. Like, make an actual suit. What do you think?”

I think you’re amazing. I think you’re beautiful, and smart like a whip, and way too fucking pure for me.

I think I…“Matvey, stop that!”

No can do. I already scooped her up.

I twirl her around and she laughs, over and over. I could listen to that forever—the sound of April laughing.

“I think,” I finally answer, “that you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Why, thank you. Can you put me down now?”

I bring my lips close to hers. “Not a fucking chance.”

34

APRIL

When I go back to the front desk this time, it’s with Petra in tow. Partly because Matvey couldn’t come, and partly because the fake guns are really heavy and I needed the extra pair of hands.

“Theyarefake, right?” I whisper while we wait for the clerk.

“The leather straps? Of course. No cows were harmed.”

“Actually, I meant?—”

“Here we are!” the clerk smiles cheerfully. “Please fill these forms. I’ll carry your dress to the back.”

“I’ll help,” Petra says.

“Thank you, but there’s no need—oh, wow, that’s bulky. Haha. Wait, these aren’t guns, are they?”

“Props,” we assure her in unison.

I dot myi’s and cross myt’s on the application form. At this point in the race, I don’t want anything to go wrong. Well, anythingelse.

I force myself not to think of the Daphne dress. What’s done is done.

When I hand the form back to the clerk, she grins. “‘The Bulletproof Bride.’ Sounds like a winning piece.”

I smile back. “Let’s hope so.”

Then I head to the Mallard lounge.

I sit down with Petra in one of the booths, feeling jittery all over. “You know, maybe coffee isn’t the best?—”

“I agree,” she says. Then she turns to the waiter. “One coffee and a shot of tequila.”

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