Page 11 of Thoroughly Pucked

“Whoa,” Dev says, a little astonished.

“Holy shit,” Ledger seconds, sounding impressed.

Pride radiates through my chest, down my arms to my fingertips. I might not know how to pick men, but give me a pair of scissors? Your girl is a gold medalist. I’m feeling pretty damn good about my handiwork so far. “Not too bad?”

Dev’s eyes are wide, his lips parted. “You’re a scissor virtuoso.”

That gives me an idea. Who doesn’t find ripping a sheet in half satisfying? This hits a similar nerve. I waggle the scissors at them. “Want to help?”

Dev raises a finger. “Would you want a pic of you trashing the dress?”

I want nothing more. “Yes!”

Dev dips into his pocket and grabs his phone while I offer the scissors to Ledger. “Want to slice some more off?”

With awhen in Romeshrug, Ledger kneels in front of me, taking the tool, then wincing for a quick second. Maybe he knelt on a rock? But that flash of pain is gone almost as soon as it appeared. I gather up some of the material from the back of the dress, then twist it around to the front. “Start here.”

“Got it,” he says, studying the fabric for a beat before he takes the hunk of material, grazing my thigh. A little charge of electricity shoots up my leg.

That’s nice.

But he flinches, then freezes. Great. Just great. He’s weirded out by touching me. That would be my luck today.

Ledger doesn’t even raise his face. He’s frozen in place, staring down at my thighs while I look at his short, dark hair. It’s different from Dev’s. Different from Aiden’s. A clean, neat look.

I like it, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable. “You don’t have to.”

He swallows noticeably, maybe sorting out his thoughts. “I just didn’t realize you were wearing stockings,” he rasps out, his gaze still locked on the sheer white thigh-highs, only a few shades lighter than my can-never-hold-a-tan legs.

“I like stockings. Tights. Thigh-high socks,” I say breezily.

He swallows again. Rougher this time. Then, like he’s collecting himself, he gives a soldier’s nod. “Okay then.”

His voice makes it sound almost like he’s…aroused?

Oh.

Oh, my.

Is that why he’s acting odd? What a wild thought. “Don’t cut the stockings though. I like them.”

As he snips, he mutters, “Me too.”

He diligently works the scissors across the rest of the dress, leaving a jagged edge in his wake. I glance up at Dev, who’s snapping photos of the moment.

I could see it on a postcard sold at a roadside gas-and-go. A woman with red hair, beach curls, a facescrubbed free of makeup, and a guy in Crocs and rolled up suit pants slicing up her wedding dress outside a 7-Eleven under the sun.

Congratu-fucking-lations on your un-wedding day.

That’s what the postcard would say. When Ledger is nearly done, he stops, lifting the scissors and waving them at Dev. “Want a turn?”

Dev lowers the phone. A flirty grin spreads across his handsome face as he meets my gaze. “I sure do.”

Ledger rises, gives the scissors to Dev, then takes his phone. Trading places, Dev kneels in front of me, while Ledger takes a pic of us. I focus on the beautiful damage Dev is doing to the tulle as he finishes with a “Done.”

It’s now a minidress.

I stand, a pair of scissors in one hand, and a huge swath of dirty, destroyed dress in the other. Yes, the dress finally feels like it fits. There’s just one thing left to do. I tug off my engagement ring, then reach behind my neck to undo the simple silver chain I’m wearing with a sparkly star on it—my eighteenth birthday gift from my grandma before she passed.“Always be sparkly, Aubrey,”she’d said.

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