Page 51 of Holiday Wedding
The silence lasts so long that I assume he’s walked away. Another yank on the zipper pulls out my hair until I exclaim with a noisy, “Ouch,” followed by a growl of frustration.
“Is something wrong?” asks Dean.
I jerk with surprise, losing more hair. My heart stops beating. I grasp at my chest in time to feel it thump back to life. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.” The door rattles lightly, as if he’s touching it from the outside. “What’s going on in there? It sounds like you’re fighting with a gorilla.”
I grimace at that surprisingly accurate description. I’ve been trying to get this dress off for fifteen minutes with no progress. “My zipper’s stuck.”
A long silence broken by Dean clearing his throat. “Do you—do you need help?”
That makes me freeze. I need help, but the thought of him seeing me like this is humiliating. Still…I have to get out of this dress. That tailor lady is tiny but terrifying. I don’t want her to accuse me of hogging the changing room.
“Is there any staff out there?” I move closer to the door and place my hand on it. “Anyone?”
His voice gets softer, like he’s moved away. “Just me. I think they’re with other customers.”
Of course they are.
“I might need some help,” I admit reluctantly.
With a twist of the knob, I unlock the door and inch it open. Dean’s on the other side, casually leaning against the wall with both hands shoved into his pants pockets, like a model on the cover ofGQ. When my eyes land on him, all the breath whooshes out of my body. He’s stunning. He’s wearing the tuxedo, a dark grey three-piece with a maroon tie—the same color as my dress—that Caleb picked out for the wedding. In it, Dean is absolute pure male perfection. A matching handkerchief is folded neatly in his jacket pocket. His slacks are tailored, hugging his muscular legs.
While my eyes have been taking a self-guided tour of his body, he’s been busy staring at me with a wide-eyed, slightly shocked expression. He doesn’t blink, almost like he’s afraid he might miss something. We stare at each other, both breathing a bit too fast, the air crackling between us.
He breaks the silence first. “Wow. That is—you look—um, nice.”
He’ll never know how much I needed to hear those words, to see the admiration in his eyes. It wipes away my shame at the dress being tight, my worry about how my body might not fit the standard for classic American beauty. Moments before, I’d been convinced I wasn’t attractive, but something in the way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful.
“Yeah. You, too,” I say breathlessly, unable to rip my eyes away from his broad shoulders and tapered waist.
Dean shifts foot to foot, the first time I’ve seen him nervous. “You need help?”
“Zipper’s caught. I can’t get it down.” I turn my back to him. I face the mirror so I can watch as he steps into the dressing room with me, closing the door behind him. We’re trapped together, pressed close in this space that felt small when it was just me but seems miniscule with both of us in it.
He moves closer, his eyes focusing on the problem. “Hmm.” He bites his lower lip and tips his head as he assesses the situation. “You’ve got yourself in quite the pickle, haven’t you?”
I giggle and ask, “Pickle?”
My laughter dies the moment his hands touch me, their warmth searing through the fabric of my dress. I suck in a breath, my pulse fluttering. Over the past couple of days, I’ve become increasingly aware of how handsome he is, how my body tunes into his presence like it’s my favorite station on the radio.
He gives an experimental pull on the zipper. “Ow!” My hand flies to my head.
“Oh, sorry.” For the next five minutes, Dean painstakingly separates my hair from the dress, strand by strand. He’s focused on the task, which allows me the opportunity to watch him in the mirror. There’s a frown of concentration on his face, a wrinkle between his brows. He purses his full lips, the lower one sticking out. His warm breath breezes over my skin, making it prickle with goosebumps. If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Several times he pauses, closes his eyes, takes in a deep inhalation, lets it out, and then goes to work. Finally, my hair is free, and I can fully extend my neck. Dean’s hand stays on the zipper.
He could leave now.
I could get the zipper down by myself.
But he doesn’t.
I could tell him to go.
But I don’t.
Instead, we both hesitate. I hold my breath, waiting to find out what he’ll do next. His brown eyes flash up to the mirror to meet mine. He holds me in that intense stare, and slowly he pulls the zipper down so my shouldersare exposed. Not low enough to see my bra, but when his gaze drops to my bare skin he swallows so loudly that it echoes in the small room.
There’s a suspended moment when my imagination takes flight and I picture him pressing his lips to the back of my neck.
