Page 33 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
Hell, especially if she does… because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here with her.
Chapter12
Julie
Iclose the bakery early.
I leave a sign on the door saysClosed for a Special Delivery,which is technically true. Desirae called early this morning, saying the dress was ready.
“It’s perfect, Julie. Trust me. You’re going to cry the second you see it.”
Challenge accepted, Des.
But now that the door’s locked, the ovens are off, and the last muffin tin is soaking in the sink, my chest feels tight. Mrs. Waverly’s funeral is tomorrow. The reality of it hangs over my shoulders like a weighted blanket, and suddenly a dress fitting feels like walking into a moment I’ve been pretending isn’t coming.
I slide into my car and drive across town. The sky is low and heavy, warmth settling over Pelican Point in a sleepy haze. The streets are quiet, the kind of soft stillness that feels like the town itself knows something sacred is about to happen.
As I walk into Coastal Couture, the tiny bell above the door tinkles like a fairy charm. The scent of expensive fabric, lavender sachets, and Desirae’s signature vanilla perfume wraps around me instantly.
She appears from behind a dressing curtain with a dramatic flourish, holding a black garment bag like it contains a wedding dress blessed by royalty.
“There she is,” Desirae says, eyes twinkling. “I’ve been waiting all day to see your face.”
I arch a brow. “That good?”
“Oh, honey,” she says, drawing me into the dressing area. “Better.”
She unzips the bag slowly, like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a diamond-studded hat.
It’s simple, elegant, and timeless. Black crepe, soft as a whisper. Sleeves that kiss the shoulders and fall into delicate fluttering cuffs. A high neckline that dips into a subtle V in the back, where a row of tiny black buttons glints like pearls in shadow. There are delicate embroidered violets stitched near the hem—a homage, I realize, to Mrs. Waverly’s name.
I suck in a breath. “Oh my god…”
Desirae just nods. “Go on. Try it. I’ll fetch you some heels and tissues.”
She shoos me into the changing room, and I slip out of my bakery clothes, careful with the dress like it might vanish if I move too fast. The second I pull the fabric over my shoulders; it molds to me like it was made from a dream.
I step out, barefoot, and Desirae freezes mid-sip of her coffee. “I knew it,” she whispers. “Look at you.”
I turn toward the mirror and… yeah, it’s perfect.
The dress fits like it was sewn directly onto my skin. It hugs where it should, skims where it needs to, and the detail at the hem makes my throat go tight. I press a hand over my heart.
“She would’ve loved this,” I murmur.
Desirae steps beside me. “She’d have said you look like a woman who knows her worth. Which you do.”
My eyes sting, but I manage to smile. “She’d have made me wear a hat, too. One of those ridiculous ones with netting and fake birds.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Desirae laughs. “I’ve got three in the back.”
We share a quiet moment, the mirror reflecting not just the dress but everything else sitting heavy on my chest. Loss. Love. Lingering confusion.
Marcus.
Desirae gives me a sideways glance, then nudges my arm gently. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer right away. Just stare at the way the dress hugs my ribs. “It’s just a guy. He left this morning without saying a word. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t stopped by. Not even for his precious stupid danish.”
