Page 148 of Champagne Fizz

“You bought me a dress?” I ask, stalling before Simon does the inevitable and asks me to put it on.

“We can’t have you walking around the reception in funeral black, can we?” Simon replies.

A piece of me smiles at how uncomfortable he seems to be with the idea of me decked out in goth chic. It’s like he doesn’t know who I am if I’m not wearing neon.

“That’s very kind, Simon,” I say, “but I can’t—”

“You can put the black dress back on later when you take down all the décor,” he insists, moving the dress closer to me so I have to take it from him. “But for a few hours, just be yourself, Kendall. The first time I met you, you weren’t afraid to stand out.”

“You don’t know me very well,” I counter, holding the dress by the hanger with one hand and touching the silk with the other. Jumping ju-ju beans, it’s so soft!

“You’d prefer black over yellow?” Simon challenges. “I think I know youa little.”

“The color’s spot on,” I admit, “but the rest of it …” I hold the dress up to my front and look at Simon, hoping he can see how much the black dress is covering versus this strappy yellow one.

“You can’t be afraid of your body forever,” Simon announces, “and this is completely chaste compared to what some people are wearing at this wedding.”

“Chaste is not the word for this dress,” I reply, touching the silk again and loving the way it gleams.

“Try it on,” he presses. “I know you want to.”

“I do,” I admit. Lady Lada is right. It’s gorgeous. It’s the type of thing I’d go gaga over if I actually thought I could pull it off. “I just—”

“Perfect,” Simon says, snatching the dress from me and hanging it from a hook on the nearest shelf. “Turn around.”

“What?”

Only, Simon is faster than me, he moves behind me before I have a chance to react, and he’s sweeping my curly hair off the back of my neck. The whirlwind of motion makes my stomach flip, and a second later his fingers are at the top of my dress, teasing the latch.

“Simon!” I pull away. “What are you doing!”

His hands fly off me and he steps back with his palms in the air. “I wasn’t going to—I was—” His face is bright red with innocence. I want to be pissed, but he’s so damn adorable it’s infuriating. “I was just going to undo the latch,” he insists. “I swear I was going to turn around the second you—”

He motions to me and the dress, then in a desperate need to prove his intent, he turns around and waits for me to forgive him.

“I can do it myself,” I say, reaching back for my zipper.

“Of course,” he agrees, keeping his back to me.

Only, it turns out the latch and zipper are in that exact spot between one’s shoulder blades that no human can reach. No matter which way I attempt to twister-turn or contort myself, I can’t get it.

“Poppyseed!” I swear.

“Do you need help?”

“No!” I strain and twist, making several more unsuccessful attempts. “Okay, maybe.”

“Ask for what you want, Kendall,” Simon says softly, and Lady Lada is beside herself. A thousand things scream through my mind at that question.

I want him to apologize.

I want him to turn back time and never tell Arie my secrets.

I want him to explain why he threatened to leave Flambé over what Arie said.

I want to believe I can trust him.

I want us to go back to that comfortable space on the beach before he ran away from me.

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