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That won’t be a big deal, right? Every bride deserves a new dress on their wedding day. Especially when the bride has the threat of a wardrobe made entirely from orange polyester hanging over her head.
***
“NORA?” JACK’S VOICE pulls me out of the deep sleep that I swear I only just fell into minutes ago. Just like in the car last night there’s a second that passes where I’m confused about where I am and how I got there, but then it all comes rushing back.
Ian attacking me. Stabbing him. Coming here to ask for Jack’s help. Agreeing to marry Jack. Today.
I sit up with a jolt.
“Jack.” I run a hand self-consciously through my hair, sending up a silent prayer that I don’t look as bad as I feel. Because I feel like I got run over by a truck. Although, even if I do look bad, at least it’s pretty dark in here…which begs the question—“What time is it?” I croak.
“It’s 6:45,” he says briskly. “Sorry to have to wake you, but if we’re going to be at the doors when City Hall opens at 8am we need to get moving.”
I blink at him, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Yeah, okay,” I agree blearily. Quite suddenly I register his attire. “You’re in a suit,” I state stupidly. My eyes scan his body, greedily drinking in the handsome sight before I remember that ogling my soon-to-be husband is a no-no. If I keep kissing him on the cheek and checking him out and thinking about him all night long then it’s very likely that I’ll forget that this impending marriage of ours is faker than the knockoff Prada purse I got off a street vendor in the Bahamas last year.
So fake that the so-called leather cracked after the first use.
“Yeah,” Jack replies, adjusting the jacket, “well we are getting married today. Seemed like a suit was appropriate attire.”
Be still my heart. He’s wearing a suit to our fake wedding.
I’m not sure why, but I find this incredibly sweet—at least until I remember again that I myself have nothing to wear. I fling off my covers and hop out of bed.
“Shoo, shoo!” I usher him out, putting my hands on his back and pushing. “I need to get moving if we’re going to leave in time for us to stop somewhere for something more appropriate for me to wear than these sweatpants.”
“Nora, hold on. Wait a second.” Jack sets his stance to stop my attempts at steering him out of the room. He’s made himself into a brick wall and since I do not currently have a wrecking ball, there will be no moving him.
“Jack,” I protest, “I know this is a fake marriage, but I still refuse to be a PJ-clad bride. Especially with you in that suit. So please, please, please get out of my room so I can take a shower and make myself presentable.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” he agrees. “But before I do, you should know that there are some outfit choices hanging up in the bathroom for you. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to wear, so I grabbed a few different choices.”
I freeze, then dart a glance toward the bathroom door. “Wait, what?” I ask. “Did you say there are clothes in the bathroom? Clothes that will fit me?”
He nods.
A sick feeling is creeping through my body, twisting around in my stomach and turning my vision blurry. Jealousy. Because where could Jack have gotten women’s clothing in the middle of the night? It’s just not possible. Which means he already had this women’s clothing here at his place. But whose is it? Does he have some girlfriend I don’t know about who leaves her stuff here?
If so, she’s not going to be happy about her boyfriend’s plans for the day.
Jack would never marry someone while dating someone else, though, even in the name of keeping said someone out of jail.
Maybe it’s an ex-girlfriend then. Someone careless enough to leave lots of clothing behind.
I don’t care much for this option either.
Don’t ask me why the idea of Jack dating another woman bothers me so much. I do not have a good answer.
“Okay then.” Jack claps his hands together, oblivious to the green-eyed monster that just stomped its way onto the scene. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want some?”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble dazedly as he exits the room, snapping the door shut behind him. With a heavy sigh I make for the bathroom, stripping off Jack’s sweatshirt as I go. I wonder if this ex-girlfriend of his poached as many of his sweatshirts as I did.
I step into the bathroom, bracing myself for the onslaught of feelings sure to hit me when I see this other woman’s clothes; but when I catch sight of the clothes hanging on the back of the door my mouth drops to the floor. Because those are my clothes hanging on the door. There’s my blue maxi dress that I reserve for hot summer days when I don’t feel like shaving. And next to that my favorite black and white sheath dress. Then behind that is the green dress I just bought for Easter.
But that’s not all. On the floor behind the door I spot my black carryon with the distinctive bag tag patterned with tiny skeins of yarn.A cursory glance inside reveals socks, pajama pants, and— I let out a squeak of horror, dropping the bag and hurrying out of the bathroom.
I burst out of the bedroom and make a beeline for the kitchen where, right away, I spot Jack busy pouring hot water into his French press.
“You went into my underwear drawer!” I cry, realizing too late that I’m still holding a pair of the offending item. Pink lacy ones I bought on a whim when I needed a confidence boost one day (it’s a true mystery why wearing cute underwear nobody else can see boosts a woman’s confidence, but it does). Pink lacy ones, I must also say, that nobody was ever supposed to see. Least of all Jack. But guess what? He’s certainly seeing them now. He turns to face me, his expression entirely too calm for a man who handled my underwear and bras without my permission! Obviously he forgot how dangerous I am when I’m angry. Hello, Jack! I stabbed someone with a knitting needle last night, remember? I am not to be trifled with.
