Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
There's Cavin in the ring, shirtless, muscles gleaming with sweat, tattoos dark against his skin. His jaw is set, fists raised, and he looks—my cheeks burn—gorgeous. Yes. He's handsome as all hell. But then there’s only one small grainy picture of me, and it’s… my license photo. I have glasses and braces and acne.
My cheeks instantly heat.
They’re mocking me in the comments. I read, and I read until Bridget finally snatches the phone.
“Stop looking at that,” she says.
“They hate me. Why do they hate me?”
“It doesn't matter.” Bridget's voice rises. “Social media is bullshit. They're keyboard warriors who—” She sways, gripping the counter. Her knuckles go white.
“Bridge.” I'm already moving, my arm around her waist. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I’m fine, but I don’t want to talk about this. And I don’t care what they say about you. You’re beautiful, and you’re marrying him. And it’s going to be a good decision. You know I feel things sometimes, and I just know… I know two things,” she says.
I stare at her, my heart racing.
“Number one, I’m going to beat this, and I’m going to get better, and I’m going to be stronger than ever. And number two.” She draws in a breath. “Marrying Cavin McCarthy is going to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
I blink and wish that I had 10 percent of her assurance of either of those things.
My father buries himself in his cup of coffee.
I look at my sister, and hope rises. She has good days and bad days. She’s wan and thinner than ever, but no one would ever know by looking at her how ill she really is.
“Okay,” I say to her, always pragmatic. “Let’s go shopping.”
The first saleswoman tries to tell me what to wear, all bossy hands and sharp opinions, but Bridget cuts her off with a clipped, “No, thank you.”
Then another one, someone who recognizes Bridget, comes rushing over. “Oh my god, Bridget, how are you?”
“Colleen!”
Turns out she’s a girl Bridget knew from school. They were close once, good friends. She takes one look at me, then at Bridget, and something shifts in her expression.
“You're here for her?” she asks, like she can't quite believe it.
Bridget nods. “Erin's getting married. To a McCarthy.”
Why did she have to add on that bit?
The girl's eyes go wide. Then she smiles—not the fake customer service kind, but something real. Warm. “Right then,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “Let's make sure you look absolutely deadly.”
And just like that, I'm in good hands.
“Here,” she says, leading me toward the back. “I'm going to set you up in a private dressing room. Much better than that madness out there.” She casts her eyes toward the communal changing area, then leans in conspiratorially. “Word around town is you're engaged to Cavin McCarthy.” She grins wide. “This is brilliant. Let me help you find something that'll make him forget his own name.” She gives me a thorough once-over. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Marilyn Monroe with that platinum-blonde hair? You’re gorgeous, Erin.”
She disappears into the back and returns with an armful of options, laying them across the velvet settee in the private room.
“Right, so.” She holds up the first one—a sleek black number. “This is elegant, classic, and will make your hair glow. High neck, but the back is completely open. Hits mid-thigh.” She sets it aside. “Safe choice.”
Then she pulls out a gorgeous turquoise dress, the fabric catching the light like water. “This one's got a cowl neck that drapes just so.” She demonstrates with her hands. “Long sleeves, but the skirt's got a slit up to here.” She gestures to her upper thigh. “Sexy but you can still move in it, and it makes your eyes pop.”
“And this,” she says, her grin widening as she holds up an ivory silk dress, “is the one I'd pick if I wanted to make a man lose his fucking mind.” The neckline plunges in a deep V, the fabric so fine it would cling to every curve. “Spaghetti straps, backless, and the skirt skims your hips and arse like it was painted on. You'll need the right knickers for this one—or none at all.” She winks. “It's the kind of dress that says you know exactly what you're doing to him.”
“What? Right,” I say, forcing on a fake smile. I’ve never been one to fabricate anything. How does it feel like every interaction with every human needs to be plastered on?
“Alright, okay,” she says. “First of all, there are two main important things you need to know when you want to dress your best.”
“Comfort and longevity,” I mutter under my breath. “Will this last me long enough so I don’t have to go back in the store? And are there any scratchy tags or materials I don’t like?”
Bridget giggles. “You’d think she’s joking,” she says to Colleen.