Page 88 of Seale the Deal

Ruger and I exchange a glance. He looks about as excited to spend his afternoon dress shopping as I would be to go hunting. I give him a tight smile and follow Remi inside, silently praying this isn’t going to be as much of a disaster as it already feels like.

The shop is a sea of white in lace, satin, silk, and tulle. Out of curiosity, I grab the nearest tag.

Three thousand? I whisper, horror creeping up my spine.

I try to convert it to Canadian dollars. No luck. My brain is good at the rows, angles, and symmetry in sewing math. Finance math? Nope. All I know is the US dollar beats the Canadian dollar, and three thousand means too much.

Remi? I call through the racks.

No answer.

I inch forward, overwhelmed by the layers of fabric. I glance back. Ruger’s still by the door, visibly tense, hands shoved into his pockets. Suddenly, a mass of lace smacks me in the face.

This is gorgeous!

I peel the dress off my head and find Remi grinning behind it.

I can’t even tell what it is, I mumble.

It’s a wedding dress, obviously.

Remi, do we have to be in here? Ruger hisses, finally deciding to join us.

Yes, she says brightly. Come on. Davone is waiting for us.

Davone?

Is this the bride?

A tall, stylish Black man in a perfectly tailored suit appears like magic, a tape measure draped around his neck. His blue glasses are thick and fabulous.

Oh my God! She’s gorgeous. Do a twirl for me, sweetie!

I’m not sure why I do it, but I twirl.

Yes! You are going to be Glamorous with a capital G! Fergie’s song is about you, honey. Come, come! He’s already halfway down the aisle, beckoning us like a fashion-forward pied piper.

Remi squeals and hurries after him. Ruger and I hang back.

I lean close and whisper, Are you okay with this?

Not sure I have a choice, he murmurs.

I glance up at him. You always have a choice.

His gaze lingers. I don’t know if that’s true when it comes to you.

My breath catches, but there’s no time to press him. We’re ushered into a show area with a plush beige couch, pedestal, and full-length mirrors. Dresses in white, ivory, and cream line the walls.

Champagne, anyone? Davone asks, clapping his hands.

You got something stronger? Ruger mutters.

Don’t be stupid. Three glasses of champagne would be lovely, Remi says, grinning.

While I’m gone, think about what kind of bride you are, Davone sings, disappearing through rows of silk.

Ruger groans and collapses onto the couch like he’s just run a marathon.