Page 86 of Vows We Never Made
“Yeah. You can hardly get married without one,” I say dryly. “From what I understand, they’ll bring you some sample dresses to see what styles suit you and then come up with a unique design for the big day.”
She’s still grinning like a kid in a candy store when I let the army of fashionistas in. After greeting me, they go to work, fawning over Hattie, complimenting her hair and coloring and figure.
She glows like the moon.
“I get to see you model them,” I tell Hattie. “All of them. So I can help you choose.”
She flushes. “That’s not very traditional. The groom isn’t supposed to see the dress before the wedding day.”
“Pages, nothing about this ‘marriage’ is traditional and you know it. So show me.”
She bites her bottom lip as she nods slowly.
And fuck me, I know I should keep my distance. I shouldn’t watch her pose and twirl in an expensive dress for both of our sakes, but I can’t help myself.
It’s not like tradition matters much. I said it myself.
Gramps took a sledgehammer to anything normal about this when he decided to force me into a wedding pact with my little sister’s best friend.
Soon enough, I’ll go back to only seeing her in public, so the chance of me losing my mind over her won’t be an issue then.
Why the hell does that bother me?
I sit and scroll through emails on my phone while Hattie disappears into my bedroom, accompanied by all the ladies.
I wonder what’s taking so long.
At last, the door creaks open.
Hattie’s hair is tied up into a neat knot, leaving her shoulders bare. She’s wearing a cloud.
It’s a full-skirted, lacy, traditional wedding beast.
Sure, it’s pretty, and she looks good in it, but she’d look good in a paper sack as long as it hugs her curves. Diamanté glitters around the bodice, sleek and shiny and modern.
I tilt my head, noticing the hesitation in her eyes.
She’s not sure about it.
Fine.
If she’s not comfortable, I don’t want her wearing it.
“No,” I say authoritatively. Relief flutters across her face. “I’m not sold on you showing that much skin, knowing there’ll be cameras everywhere. Try something more traditional.”
She looks down at herself, tracing some of the lace on her stomach.
“The girls say it’s a statement dress.”
“Statement? It says Vegas strip club.” I lower my voice. “But that’s not the point. Is it even comfortable?”
She takes a few seconds, mulling it over. “No.”
“Then pick something else. They only have a hundred other choices.”
She gives me a quick, hesitant smile. “Okay. Thanks, Ethan.”
“Welcome, Pages.”
