Page 37 of This

I duck under the curtain into the changing area, and she’s fully dressed.

“He said no?”

“Technically,” she says, “but we’re going to change his mind.”

“And how are we doing that?”

She holds up a white strapless bra in one hand and the top of the gown in the other.

Oh God.

“No way,” I say, shaking my head.

“It’s only bad luck if he seesmein the dress.”

“That doesn’t sound remotely accurate.”

“Please, Bennie. I know when he sees it, he’ll love it. The dress is our size and everything, so it will look just like it will on me, and he’ll get the full effect.”

I stare at the ceiling. “Except it’s not the woman he loves, so not at all the same.”

When she doesn’t say anything, I bring my head up. She smiles sweetly to lull me into a false sense of security, and then she attacks.

“Three years ago, when I pretended to be you on that blind date with the guy who ended up being arrested. Mid. Dinner.”

Fuck.

“Holy fucking shit.”—Liam whenI walk out of the dressing room.

His fiancée is hyperventilating in the restroom, praying to the bridal gown gods, while my thong rides up.

“Is that it?” he asks, circling me as I climb onto the riser. “The dress Keaton wants?”

I follow him with my head. “No, I picked it out forourwedding. Maybe you’ll leave her. We’ll give it a real shot.”

Still walking, he ignores me, and judging by his face, he’s running numbers through his head to rearrange a wedding budget. But while he focuses on the dress, I have no intentions of seeing myself all white and fluffy and look everywhere but the mirror. Which means I immediately spot Dane rounding the corner with two glasses of champagne in his hands.

“Dude, they get to drink over here while—holy fucking shit.” He stops short when he sees me, the complimentary bubbly sloshing over the side of one glass and onto the carpet.

You’ve got to be kidding me.Less than twenty-four hours ago, I told him to stay away from other women while in a dressing room, and now, I’m wearing a wedding dress in another? Keaton’s six hours at the police station answering questions after they hauled that guy away in handcuffs fails to compare.

To spare myself the shock on his face, I close my eyes, already gathering up the train when they open. “You good, Liam? Great.” I stumble off the pedestal and mad dash for the curtain.

Once hidden, I sink onto the bench in the corner and press my palms to my hot cheeks. The drape next to me rustles, and Dane’s hand pokes through with a flute.

“Hey, Bennett,” he says.

I sigh and squeak a, “Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t keep that dress.”

I snort out a laugh and swipe the glass, draining the champagne before I set it back in his hand.

Ithought I’d move onfrom San Francisco before the holidays. Spend a month driving from place to place or head east. But the itch to leave stays at bay, my mind and body content where I am for now.

With my most recent trip to Phoenix only a month ago, I spend Thanksgiving in San Francisco. Aria and I burn dinner. Utterly destroy every biscuit, sauce, and pie we come in contact with, while we laugh at our inability to Martha Stewart past setting a badass table with a runner and painted dishes, courtesy of her pottery class. The smoke-laden air tips off Steve when he descends from his tower. He sniffs once and is calling for delivery by the time he reaches the stairs.

I’ll spend my birthday—two days before Christmas, which meant the few people giving me gifts growing up lumped them into one—in Phoenix, so the three of us celebrate the weekend before. Aria bakes me the cake she promised. The inedible turkey should have prepared me for the first bite.

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