Page 40 of Seein’ Red

“I have not!” Kenzie defends. “I’ve been very careful to make sure.”

“Hmmmpf,” scoffs Irina.

I bite my tongue, knowing exactly what is going through Kenzie’s head. I have been on the receiving end of such comments many times. Because it was always my fault—never that her measurements could have been off. Never.

“I think it’s perfect,” Sylvie says, a long, heavy sigh following her comment. “Like something out of a magazine.”

“Sylvie’s right,” Bronwyn adds.

Kenzie turns to face us, eyes shiny, smile bright enough to light up the entire state. The satin of her A-line dress reflects the bright overhead lights, making her glow even more, and the deep V-neck dips down just enough to provide a peek of cleavage, which I’m sure will drive Dustin wild. Pun intended.

She is everything a bride should be—beautiful, blushing, and most of all, happy.

I should be all caught up in these feels with her. Gushing over how incredible she looks. Squealing over how in a few days she’s going to walk down the aisle toward the only man she’s ever loved. Laughing about one dick for the rest of her life. Offering her a no-questions-asked getaway car should she change her mind.

Instead, I’m all up in my own head, focused on the last question I should be asking. Am I or aren’t I?

Despite my best intentions and every possible effort, I didn’t break away from Ernie and the tax discussion until almost eight last night. Six hours of reviewing tax records and donation verifications is enough to turn anyone’s brain into soup. It also didn’t leave me with enough time to make the drive to Tifton to hit up a store.

Nor did the fact that today’s very full day of wedding stuff started with an early breakfast at Dolly’s before heading to Kenzie’s final fitting. At least now I’m in Tifton and can maybe attempt a getaway.

Highly unlikely, but not entirely impossible.

The rattle of my phone in my purse steals my attention for a second, if for no other reason than my already grated nerves heightening even more. I’d ask how many texts one person can send or how many times they can call, but I’m not sure I want the answer. Nash has got to be pushing the limit though.

I reach down, swiping to clear the alert without reading it. There’s no need. It says some version of the other thirty he’s sent since yesterday afternoon. Call me. Are you okay? Let's talk. Please tell me what’s going on. Blah, blah, blah.

“I’m gonna be Mrs. Wilder,” Kenzie says, her whispered voice breaking.

“You sure fucking are,” I tell her, trying to focus on the moment.

Irina turns and glares at me, pin in her mouth, like I’m still sixteen and practicing the pageant poise. I lift one shoulder in indifference, as she turns back to Kenzie.

“No lose more weight!” she commands. “If you don’t, then you should be fine. You do, it not on me.”

Kenzie nods, stepping off the podium to go slip out of the dress as Sylvie turns to me to roll her eyes at the weight comment. I lean in, waiting for Irina to be out of earshot until I reply.

“You get used to it,” I tell her. “She’s used to pageant girls, who are not always the most healthy when it comes to body maintenance. And when you pay the kind of big money that goes into these dresses, you want to make sure they fit perfectly.”

“I guess.”

“How much money are we talking?” Bronwyn asks.

“Thousands,” I say. “Per dress. And there are multiple dresses per event.”

“Holy shit.”

“Bronwyn, you have no idea,” Sylvie says. “We’ll have to show you pictures. The dress she wore when she was crowned Miss Georgia was incredible. It was this royal blue, with a sweetheart neckline and this beautiful stitching on the bodice. And the slit! That thing went all the way up to her hip.”

“There’s a photo right there!” I say, pointing to the wall. My phone buzzes again, and Bronwyn looks down at it, but I continue, pretending not to hear it. “Irina did all the stitching by hand.”

Bronwyn walks over, mouth going slack as she does a double take. I can’t blame her—I'm so done up in that photo even I wonder if it’s me sometimes. Perfectly curled hair, enough makeup to frost a cake with, the satin sash reading Miss Georgia obscured by the large bouquet of peach-colored roses I’m holding, that massively heavy crown on my head.

“This is you!” she says.

“That’s her!” Kenzie echoes, stepping out of the dressing room. Irina flutters in after her, bagging up the dress. “It was right before our junior year at UGA. We all went up to Columbus to watch her compete. One of the youngest Miss Georgias ever.”

“Seriously?” Bronwyn turns to face me, amazed.