Page 57 of Maid of Dishonor

His fitting went perfectly, of course, not that I’m surprised or anything. Carter looked obscenely good in the suit he tried on. He shouldn’t—no one should. It’s a white suit with a pink shirt and a fedora. Afedora. But it’s true; on him it just looked hot. I’m pretty sure that the inventor of the suit had someone like Carter in mind to wear it.

I’m not sure who this dress’s designer envisioned, but it was not tomboy Sam Quinn. It’s a muted teal color, and it looks like it will beveryshort, likely because Maya didn’t get my height right. It has a sweetheart neckline, which is fine—it’s the length and the tiers of ruffled lace that take me out of my comfort zone. I can admit the whole look is perfect for Maya’s boho vibe.

I prefer simple dresses, personally. No lace or ruffles or things like that. But this isn’t about me, so I just suck it in and then wrestle the thing on.

And itdoesrequire wrestling.

Once I’m sufficiently stuffed into the dress, I just stare at myself in horror.

What did I ever do to deserve this? Did I offend Maya somehow without knowing it? The dress is so tight I can’t breathe, so short my cellulite is visible, and so low cut that everything that usually hangs out in my sports bra is now just…hangingout.

“Carter,” I hiss from my stall. When there’s no response, I speak louder. “Carter!”

“Yeah? What’s taking so long?” he asks. Before I can answer, he says, “I’m hungry. Let’s go get food.”

I snort. Fat chance of me eating anything until this wedding. I already can’t breathe as it is.

“You ate a burger not two hours ago,” I say. “And I can’t wear this. I won’t.”

“I’m sure it isn’t that bad,” he says, sounding unconcerned.

But it is. Itisthat bad. The only person I ever want to see this much of me is Carter,afterwe’re married. We'll have a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. Two-point-five kids—Carter Jr. and Ava and…well, maybe a dog rather than half of a child. Home-cooked family dinner every night. I want that, dang it. I want all of it. Only then will anyone ever see me in this dress.

“Sam?” Carter says, and I realize I’ve completely spaced out.

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my forehead absently and swaying slightly in my teal, six-inch heels—they fit, at least. I suddenly feel a little woozy.

Carter can apparently tell something is wrong, because he sounds concerned as he says, “You okay?”

I shake my head, though I know he can’t see me. “I can’t wear this,” I say again.

“It will be fine,” he says, his voice reassuring. “Come on. Come show me. It will be fine,” he says again.

I need to get out of this stall. I need to get out of this dress. I need to breathe fresh air.

Still unsteady on my feet, I unlock the stall door. Spots dance before my eyes as I step out.

“I don’t…I can’t…breathe…” I say, only to pitch forward as everything goes black.

* * *

“Sam?”

A familiar voice, panicked and near, reaches me through the blackness. A warm hand skates over my neck and shoulder blades, and in a better state of mind, I’d probably appreciate it.

“I’m unzipping this dress, okay?” the voice says. “So you can breathe.”

Now fingers fumble with the back of my dress, frantic, hurried. I have the vague thought that I should roll over and make it easier, but I can’t seem to make myself move or speak. There’s something heavy pressing in on my lungs, and my woozy thoughts go in and out.

“Come on, baby, wake up,” the voice mutters. There’s more feeling around at my back, and a few seconds later, a weight seems to lift from my chest. I feel like one of those people in crime shows after they’ve almost drowned—my body pulls in great, heaving breaths as my eyes finally flutter open.

“Sam,” the voice says with relief. It’s Carter—of course it is. It takes me a second to reorient, but everything comes back pretty quickly when I see that I’m halfway sprawled in his lap as he sits on the floor. I can only pray that the dress is still containing everything it’s supposed to contain.

Sadly, that’s not much.

As if reading my thoughts, Carter nods and says firmly, “No way are you wearing this dress.”

I’m prevented from responding by the sound of clicking heels, and the salesperson-slash-seamstress—I’m not really sure what her role is, to be honest—rounds the corner.

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