Page 68 of Faking the Pass
And I wouldn’t be required to deliver memorized vows this time. Presley had assured me all I had to do was show up and say yes to whatever the officiant asked me. Easy peasy.
By tonight, we’d be married.
My belly filled with a squall of flutters. Why did that thought give me butterflies?
Stupid butterflies—couldn’t they tell the difference between a real wedding day and a fake one?
Danielle adjusted my veil in the back, and we both stood looking at our reflections in her room’s full-length mirror.
“You look amazing,” she said. “Even prettier than last time.”
Both of us were wearing updos with a few loose curls near our faces. The makeup artist had done great work, making us look better than our bare-faced selves but still very natural.
“Thank you. At least I canbreathethis time,” I said. “This dress is actually my size. You look great too.”
I’d chosen the wedding gown Jessica and I both had liked best, a silk crepe slip dress with a classic bias cut design and graceful cowled neckline. Simple and a little sexy, it was floor length and featured no sequins or rhinestones.
It flowed over my figure, draping my silhouette in a flattering way and catching the light as I turned from side to side, looking at it.
Unlike the thirty-pound, busily ornamented ballgown I’d worn to marry Randy, this one felt light and airy.
“Wellyoulook like a princess,” Danielle said. “And this time you don’t have to kiss a frog. You get to kissPresley Lowe, superstar quarterback and super hottie.”
She let out a little squeak and did a twirl, causing her own turquoise silk dress to flare at the hem.
The uncalled for butterflies were doing their thing again. Unfortunately, Presley had given me my last truly good kiss,which was a sad thing to have to admit more than fifteen years later.
I opened my mouth to point out that our kissing would be limited to a peck at the conclusion of the ceremony, but Danielle held out a hand.
“I know, I know… you already kissed him back in high school. And this isn’t ‘real.’”
When I’d called Danielle to invite her to the wedding, I’d told her the truth. I’d had to. I didn’t lie to my best friend.
Though I’d assured her it wasn’t necessary, she’d insisted on coming.
“I’ll never miss one of your weddings,” she vowed. “No matter how many there are.”
Plus, she’d said it was important for her to be here to help uphold the illusion.
And that was all this was.
“What’s weird is itfeelsmore real than your other wedding,” my friend said, “at least to me. Let me enjoy the vicarious fantasy.”
“It’s no more real than my marriage to Randy would have been,” I reminded her.
And myself.
No matterhowit felt.
There was a knock at the door of Danielle’s room, and she went to open it. To my stunned amazement, the wedding planner from my un-wedding to Randy stood there.
Did she specialize in fake marriages or something?
“It’s time. Ready ladies?” Olivia asked.
Unable to actually answer the question due to the sudden lump in my throat, I nodded and moved toward the door. We followed the woman down a wide flight of stairs to the lobby of the historic inn.
The Cliffhouse was once a private home, built in 1875. Now the forty-acre seaside estate housed an upscale restaurant and thirty guest rooms, suites, and beach cottages.
