Page 2 of RomeAntically Challenged
“Yeah, about that.” She could hear the familiar squeak of leather as Clark reclined in his office chair. “I guess there was a mix-up between orders, and your grandmother’s dress was used to make, uh, Molly-Leigh’s gown.”
Annie eased onto the couch and rested her head on her knees.
“How did Molly-Leigh end up at Bliss?” she asked. The question exposed an ache so deep, it was as if she were reliving the breakup all over again. Because Bliss wasn’t the kind of off-the-rack-shop most brides visited. It was a custom gown boutique that specialized in vintage restoration and had a yearlong wait-list.
Bliss didn’t work with just any bride, and Annie hadn’t wanted any old dressmaker to handle her most precious family heirloom. Which was now retrofitted to support Dolly Parton, the New Year’s Eve ball in Times Square, and the scales of justice—that never seemed to tip in her favor.
“She saw a sketch of your dress in the wedding journal and fell in love with it.”
Annie jerked her head up and glanced out the window to the back deck, breathing out a sigh of relief when she spotted her wedding journal. The evening’s marine layer had come in fast, leaving a light dusting of dew, but it was right where she’d tossed it, beside the pool, under the patio table, in a box labeled DIRTY LAUNDRY, DRYOATMEAL, ANDBROKENDREAMS. “How did she see my wedding journal?”
“Ourwedding journal,” he corrected, and a bad feeling began to swirl in her belly. “I had one of the nurses make a copy of it for me.”
“That’s an inappropriate use of hospital staff and supplies. And why? You barely went to any of the appointments.”
“I went to the ones that mattered.”
“You mean, the one. Theonethat mattered to you,” she corrected. “You showed up twenty minutes late to the cake tasting. And only because you were determined that ithadto be carrot cake. Nobody likes carrot cake, Clark. Nobody.”
“My mom does. And so does Molly-Leigh.”
Ouch.
“I guess you found your perfect partner then,” she whispered, raising her hand, her ring finger looking heartbreakingly bare.
Other people’s choices are not a reflection on me, she reminded herself.
They were the words her childhood therapist had given her when she began to suffer panic attacks brought on when confronted with situations that left her feeling inadequate. Throughout her teens, she wore it like armor. As an adult, she liked to think it was more of a coping device when insecurities paid her an unwelcome visit.
“You still owe me half of the deposit,” she reminded him.
“That’s my Anh-Bon,” he said softly, and once upon a time, the nickname would have given her heart a flutter. Today it made her want to throw up. “Always calling me on my shit. Without you, I never would have gotten through my selfish stage.”
Annie laughed at the irony.
Growing up the adopted child of two renowned therapists, and the only rice cracker in a community of Saltines, Annie had acquired the unique ability to identify and soothe away people’s fears. She could find a solution before most people realized they had a problem. It was what made her so good at her job. And so easy to open up to.
The nurses at the hospital had taken to calling her Dr. Phil.
Annie was a good girl with a good job who managed to attract good guys with the potential for greatness when it came to love. Her life had been a nonstop revolving door of serial monogamists, each with a fatal flaw that kept him from findingthe one. For most of their time with Annie, the men were convincedshewas the one. Then, ultimately, she’d fix what was broken and make some other woman enormously happy.
Annie had wife-in-training written all over her DNA. She had a knack for helping her boyfriends overcome their issues. Four of her last five met their wives within months of breaking it off with her. The fifth married his high school crush, Robert.
Then came Clark. Her practical knight in surgical scrubs, with an amazing family, a solid life plan, and an unshakable foundation. He was the first guy to get down on one knee, tell Annie that, for him, she was it.
Foolishly, she’d believed him.
And when he’d recanted, confessed he wasn’t husband material, that it was him not her, she’d believed that too. Until mere weeks after ending their engagement, when he and Molly-Leigh had “put a ring on it.”
“You have a lot to be called on. Let’s start with the money for the dress you now owe me.”
He sighed, long and loud. “How much?”
“Four million dollars.”
“Oh, for the love of God.”
“No, Clark, for the love of my grandmother’s dress.Mygrandmother’s dress.” Her voice cracked, and so did her heart.
