Fake Fiancée(49)

I couldn’t relate to the abuse, but I got that love could be a powerful thing and that it could change people.

“Anyway, there’s a core of strength inside me . . . this need to just live and be happy. And I know that fate has a big life ahead of me, and whatever happened to me back then isn’t going to screw it up. And maybe . . . just maybe, awful things had to happen to me before I ended up in the right place.”

Her gray gaze connected with mine, and I read hope there.

I held my rage for her father in and focused on her. I’m sorry might come across as pity, so I didn’t say it. Instead, I kissed her lightly and hugged her, wrapping my forearms around her small waist and pulling her tight against me. “I’ve got you,” I whispered. “And you are in the right place.”





Sunny

ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON NEARLY two weeks after the library incident I stood outside one of the premier wedding shops in the Atlanta area, a chic little place called Boutique Celeste. I was fake dress shopping.

It was rather cold for the first week of November. I shifted closer to the store, anxious to get inside and get this task over with.

Isabella and Mimi flanked me on either side, my bodyguards. I say that because they’d both been sending me concerned looks for the past week. Just this morning Mimi had commented on the hollows in my cheeks. Isabella had chimed in about the shadows under my eyes.

I just missed Max.

Since the library, I’d seen less of him. We’d had lunch together several times, but for the most part we hadn’t been alone. I had my car back, so we weren’t driving to class together. Of course, he’d check in with me, texting late at night after practice. He always sounded exhausted. Most times he wanted to come over, often insisting, but I brushed him off with excuses that I was in bed or studying. He was in the thick of football season, or he probably would have pressed me more.

We’d had our magical night in the basement, and it had been everything, but since then I’d decided to give him some space until he figured out exactly what we were. Shit. I didn’t know what we were. Perhaps sex only complicated us. I didn’t know. What I did know was that he had a ton of pressure on him, and I didn’t want to mess with his head like Bianca had.

Thankfully there hadn’t been any more crazy incidents or flowers left on my stoop. We still didn’t know who the culprit was though. There was no video footage from the stairwell, just views of the library entrances and exits. Campus police had pored through them, along with my manager Pam, but there was nothing suspicious. It was frustrating—and scary. If the culprit had planned it, it meant they’d been waiting for me to finally make a trip down to the basement. My hope was that it was a harmless prank decided on a whim by someone who didn’t even know me.

A pretty young girl in her mid-twenties with long brown hair rushed toward us from across the street. “So sorry I’m late,” she gushed with a sheepish grin. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Carrie Longmire with WBBG Channel 7, and I also freelance with the Atlanta Gazette for their Lifestyle section. Millicent asked me to write the article about your engagement.”

“Of course.” I shook her hand and introduced Mimi and Isabella. Max had informed me of this a week ago, and I’d agreed. I was seeing this darn thing through to the end for him.

We went inside the mirrored double doors and one of the shopkeepers met us immediately, a huge smile on her face. Of course, Millicent had prepped the owner of the boutique of our arrival.

After air kisses and introductions, we made our way through the store to a small posh sitting area surrounded by a wall of mirrors. Mimi and Isabella both took a glass of champagne that was offered by the sales girl. Carrie declined.

“Miss Blaine, would you like a drink?”

I shook my head, my gaze bouncing off the heavy crown molding of the ceiling, the beautiful gold filigree wallpaper, and the wraparound leather seating. This place was insanely beautiful. And the dresses were a sea of billowy soft whites and creams that glittered under the sparkly lights of the diamond-drop chandeliers.

It wasn’t real, I reminded myself. I gnawed on my lower lip, fighting back tears—God, it was so entirely stupid to get emotional, but since the night we’d been together, I was walking a tightrope with emotions, and at any moment I was going to fall and break into a million pieces.

The saleslady brought me back with a clearing of her throat, making me start. “If you don’t want champagne, I’d be happy to run to the back and grab you a water or a soda?”

“I’m fine, but thank you.”

She nodded and ushered for us to sit down.

“Based on the phone interview we had, Miss Blaine, we’ve put together a few styles we thought you might enjoy.” With a clap of her hands, a myriad of tall and stately models emerged from doors inset inside the mirrored walls.

I sucked in a sharp breath at the visions in white. Elegant dresses with sweetheart necklines, strapless ones with pearls and beads, and a couple of quirky styles with lace and chiffon bell sleeves. One of them, a timeless body-hugging fishtail design, caught most of my attention. Sparkling crystals had been sewn into the material, dripping in a V design to the floor. I imagined pairing it with a purple and pink bouquet and bridesmaids dressed in slinky silver dresses. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered.

Each model did a pirouette in front of us and then walked back to stand in a line.