Page 28 of Broken Arranged Mate
When Kira told me Veva had agreed to host the bridal shower, I burst into laughter. An engagement party, a wedding shower, and now a bridal shower.
At least Oren isn’t required to attend this one. I could tell he already thought the shower and engagement party were more than enough. Like I have a lot recently, I hear his voice in my head—I thought we were getting married in the warehouse.
Of course he did. I don’t know if that’s an Oren thing or a man thing in general.
Veva’s home is gorgeous, the windows open, and flowers line the walls. She’s put together a build-your-own bouquet wall, and there’s a long table with chocolate-covered strawberries, champagne, and little finger sandwiches along the left side of her living room.
I’m wearing another white dress, hemmed short as a sort of party version of the real thing. Although I haven’t seen the real thing, I have no idea what Kira is doing for it. She’s very secretive, miming zipping her mouth every time I try to bring it up.
I have to trust her. It’s not like she’s ever made something ugly before.
“Are you getting burnt out from all the parties?”
Emaline is wearing a blush pink dress that hangs to her elbows, a matching bow in her hair, which hangs halfway down her back. Every time I see her, it feels longer than I remember. Probably because when I first met her, she was freshly out of jail, where they keep a strict regulation on how long a prisoner’s hair can be.
“No,” I say, while nodding, which makes her laugh. I take a sip of my champagne and glance at her. “Veva really did a great job.”
“She did,” Emaline agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m just glad nobody asked me to host. Aidan, the baby, and I are stuck in that little apartment while our house is being built. We have no space for the three of us, let alone a whole celebration.”
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I turn, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her in closer.
“Whoa—hey,” she lowers her voice for the second word, whispering it into my ear as she rubs my back. “Everything okay?”
I should tell her the truth. She’s one of my closest friends.
If I told the truth, it would be that every time she talks about her baby, about Aidan, I’m filled with a stupid amount of jealousy that makes me feel ashamed, and also like a bad friend. I should be happy for her, not jealous of what she has.
But ever since Dorian and I were kids, I’ve wanted to build a family. Maybe it came from losing our parents, or being so solitary as Gramps focused most of his time on Dorian, but I’d dreamed of the day I found someone to love me, cherish me.
I think of Oren, that stiff, reserved posture. The way he looks right through me.
The fact that I thought he was my mate, and he shut me down so spectacularly it put a bad taste in my mouth for months after. And the fact that I’ve never told any of my friends about it before.
I open my mouth to respond to her, to maybe give her some small part of what I’ve just thought, but Veva appears, wearing her trademark frown.
“Hey, I put all this together, and Em’s the one who gets the hug?”
Pushing away thoughts of Oren—and of this entire situation—I turn to Veva and wrap my arms around her, too.
“Well, thanks,” she says, then, stepping away from me, pushes some of that dark hair over her shoulder. “I put together a game. And you have to play it.”
“Now?”
“Right now, yes,” she gestures to the front of the room, where there’s a fold-up chair adorned with some fake flowers, settled right in front of the TV. I make my way over there and settle in. Veva hands me a whiteboard, and I look around at the women gathered for some clue as to what is going to happen.
Then, I hear a voice I don’t expect.
“…really have to do this?”
It’s Oren. I whip around and look at the TV, which draws some laughter from the crowd. He’s there on the TV, black hair mussed, eyes dark, those constant tired circles drawn on his handsome face. The camera shakes a bit, and when the voice from behind it comes, I realize it’s Veva.
“Yes, you have to do it. Now, answer the first question.”
Oren sighs, looks down at the paper in his hand, which crinkles audibly over the video. Slowly, like he’s in pain, he says, “What is the bride’s favorite food?”
He narrows his eyes and looks up at the camera, then Veva pauses it, so Oren is stuck there, with that scrutinizing expression he makes so often.
“Uh,” I laugh, glancing around at them. If this is a game where Oren has to answer questions about me, it’s going to be awkward. We may be getting married, but we know next to nothing about one another. “Creme brûlée?”
