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“I agree,” Mom declares, smiling brilliantly. “Is it comfortable?”
“It’s about an inch too long.”
“If only we hadn’t started this endeavor by providing your measurements. Oh. Wait.”
The sarcastic apple did not even roll when it fell from the tree.
I sigh, defeated. “It’s comfortable, enough.”
Mom crosses her arms and shakes her head at me. “I know, darling. It’s so sad to be marrying into wealth.”
My face heats as Brigid hands me the reception dress to try on. Gripping the padded hanger, I mumble, “I’m not marrying him for his money.”
“And you love him, too? Well, that’s just depressing.” The woman pulls her purse into her lap and begins searching the pockets. “Let me see where I put my tiny violin. I thought I might need it again today, after I played it for your father, who was so sad he couldn’t come to this fitting.” She chuckles, evilly. “Sucks to be a boy.”
I gape. “Wh—” I scowl. “You told Dad he couldn’t come? He absolutely could have come. I wouldn’t have cared.”
Savage, Mom lifts her phone, presses a button, and overlaps the classical music whispering through the room with slow violin notes.
My arms fold, proving this dress’s mobility far outranks that of the last monstrosity I was in. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“And, yet, I’m not.”
The apple.
It dropped dead on the roots.
Heaving a sigh, I march myself into the dressing room. “Mom. Invite Dad to dinner.”
She turns the violin music up louder.
“If your father’s coming, can I invite Cody?” Brigid asks.
“Yes.” Sighing, I say, “Also, might as well tell Finn.”
While I change, Penny sings “Alone Again (Naturally)” beneath the cacophony of classical and violin music, Brigid on the phone with Cody, and my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
In two weeks…
I’m getting married to the man I love.
Chapter 24
I, Marcella Keyes, love you, Finnegan Marsh.
– Marcella
The first red flag I have ever seen Finn display appears on Thanksgiving morning. When he ignores my text asking what I should wear to dinner with his mother. Since he didn’t tell me, it is a blow to my carefully-curated spite that I’m not in my pajamas when he rolls up with his second red flag.
Three words. Three incriminating words.
Before sitting across from me (a third red flag if I’ve ever seen one since we’ve started riding side-by-side like derpy little love birds), he said:
You look beautiful.
Finn, wisely, never makes unsolicited comments about my appearance. If he dares start talking about how I look without any prompting, I’ll bite him hard enough to draw blood. For this reason, I know his little comment was a reply to my text.
Meaning he saw my text.
