Page 88 of Love is a Game

Is it my imagination, or does she seem a little tense? Does she sense there’s a problem with the dress? But how could she?

No, I’m projecting. Surely.

But she practically cold-shoulders Tuck to efficiently introduce her manager, Jess, a fresh-faced blonde who formally shakes our hands.

“Can you believe it’s almost here?” Mia asks breathlessly. “Mason and I are getting married in just a matter of weeks! Feels surreal.”

I nod, glancing around. Surreal is one way to put it. Another is blindingly extravagant. The grandeur of this estate, with its priceless artworks and decor, is like stepping into an old-world movie set.

It makes me think of another era. Of sharply dressed men in pinstriped suits, whiskey glasses in hand, murmuring over business deals in the lounge. Women draped in fur and pearls, their laughter tinkling like the crystal chandeliers overhead, as they glide upstairs to the ballroom.

Hmm. And in a few minutes, Mia’s going to want an update on the dress that’s supposed to match it all.

No pressure.

I get a brief reprieve as Violet invites us to sit, and we’re served coffee and snacks.

But predictably, it comes.

“So,” Mia says, casually leaning against the carved armrest, eyes sweeping to mine. “The dress.”

I attempt a confident gaze back.

Her massive engagement ring catches the light as she lays a hand to her chest.

“Penelope, I know you’re here under such sad circumstances, and I just want you to know—there’s absolutely no pressure.” Her megawatt smile doesn’t falter. “I have the utmost confidence in you. I mean, I hired the best, right? And after all those initial fittings, I’m sure it must be close to completion?”

Before I can answer, Jess chimes in, her tone crisp and professional despite the fact she looks barely old enough to order a drink.

“We just need to flag that from here on, Mia’s schedule is ultra-tight. We fly in only two days before the wedding. That’s why we’re staying these extra few days now—to ensure everything is perfectly synchronized.”

I glance at Tuck, then attempt a response.

“That is…really tight. But don’t worry, Mia. The beadwork is stunning, and the silhouette is exactly what we talked about. Romantic, elegant—”

“And no sweetheart neckline, right?” Mia questions.

I freeze. “What?”

Tuck nearly chokes on his coffee.

He side-eyes me, clearing his throat.

“What could you possibly have against a sweetheart neckline, Mia?” he asks.

Mia rolls her eyes. “I love my mother, but her wedding dress was all about showcasingRaquel Madson’s iconic bosom.” She air-quotes it, deadpan. “As we discussed, I don’t want to replicate her style, which featured a very deep sweetheart neckline that had all eyes glued to her cleavage.”

I feel Tuck shift beside me, doing a slow, exaggerated nod, as my stomach nosedives.

Because the dress, the actual, almost-finished, if not quite perfect dress, has a very distinct sweetheart neckline. A feature that somehow stuck in my head as what Mia wanted.

Shit.

Mia keeps talking, blissfully unaware that my blood pressure just skyrocketed.

“I mean, that was all in the original design brief, anyway. Right?”

“Oh.Of course.” My voice goes a little high-pitched, but I plow through, pasting on a too-wide smile. “Absolutely, no sweetheart neckline!Check!” I make an exaggerated tick in the air like an idiot.

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