One Funeral (No Weddings #2)(44)

I had no idea what to expect on our shopping trip. But as I stood in my sizable corner dressing room with unflattering white lights glaring down at me from a stately coffered ceiling, I realized something had gone horribly wrong.

Candie was a gorgeous girl with platinum blond hair, a perky, toned body, and hot-pink lipstick on plump lips, which was evidently a favorite color. But she had clearly lost her mind.

She had brought us all to a wedding shop—to wear bridesmaid dresses.

In poofy hot pink.

I texted Cade from the dressing room.

Save me.

“Ready, Hannah? Come out here and give us a twirl on the catwalk.” Candie’s sugary voice carried all the way back to my hidey-hole from the bridal showroom.

I groaned.

On top of the dress being a neon abomination, I kept having to breathe deeply to get over the fact that I was in a bridal shop. Unbidden, images randomly flashed into my mind of me trying on my wedding dress, of Penelope strutting around and laughing in her maid-of-honor dress.

The only things that helped me were deep breaths, remembering Abigail’s words about how far I’d come, and…the ridiculousness of what I was wearing.

Finally, a text reply appeared. My lifeline to reality and the other thing helping me through this—Cade’s healthy dose of humor.

Can’t be as bad as my tie and cummerbund.

I typed, pounding the screen keyboard with my thumbs.

Worse. I’m blind. Send sunglasses STAT.

“Hannah?” My dressing room door vibrated as Candie knocked on it.

“Coming.” I grimaced, staring into the full-length mirror in the dressing room. I couldn’t even imagine who would dream of sticking an unsuspecting bridesmaid into this hideous nightmare.

I typed furiously.

It’s the ugliest bridesmaid dress EVER!

My phone vibrated.

Hang in there. We’re all taking one for Team Candie.

I chewed my lip, watching him type while the restless natives on the other side of my dressing room door laughed about something. Good. Humor happened to be a requirement in situations where you needed to imagine yourself naked more than the audience staring at you.

Oh! Does it have one of those fluffy underskirt things? If not, insist on it. We could work with that. I’ve done bridesmaids, but never at a funeral.

I rolled my eyes, typing.

Player. And those fluffy underskirt things are called petticoats.

Then I typed.

Shopping sucks.

Immediately, he typed again.

Shopping can be fun . . .

Leaning against the mirror, I arched a brow at those three dots filled with innuendo.

Naughty shopping?

He typed.

Maybe . . .

I smirked. Wow. What I wouldn’t give to have Cade in my dressing room right now, exploring petticoats and all the other Cade-uncharted territory under my skirt. The knocking would be against the walls, under those glaring lights affixed into that ostentatious ceiling. Growing heated at my thoughts, I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips.

We need to go shopping sometime, then.

He typed a reply.

Is that a date?

I paused.

Sure.

He typed.

You’re on.

I smiled and almost put the phone down, but another text from him lit up the screen.

What are you wearing? . . .

“Hannah?” Kendall’s voice. “You okay in there? The hot pink didn’t blind you, did it? Feel your way to the door.”

I heard a thud, and the door rattled. Kendall probably banged her head against it, praying for a total knockout. “Marco…”

I laughed. “Polo.”

Gotta go. And I’m wearing a hot-pink bridesmaid dress.

I hit SEND before I quickly added the best part.

With petticoats . . .

He typed a reply.

You are killing me . . .

I smirked, then finally left the dressing room to be seen in what someone had designed while tripping on drugs.





Cade directing an Invitation Only event was nothing short of spectacular.

I watched from the side of the room as he ushered in florists, signed off on deliveries, and extinguished fires that erupted every five minutes with a smooth collectedness, like he’d been born into the position. The man performing in his element made me stare slack-jawed every time, and tonight was no exception. Leaning against a banquet table soon to be covered in linen color coordinated to the event, I felt like I could pull up a chair and watch him orchestrate all night.

And he calls me Maestro.

In the midst of it all, he cast a glance at me, and that brief look spoke volumes. Telling me he knew I watched, wanting him, and that he wanted me with the same unrelenting desire. And with his one scorching stare, my insides fired from a low heat to simmering, threatening to boil over. By the time I took a deep breath to calm myself before I burst into flames, he’d returned to his role as point man, ensuring his sisters had everything they needed before guests began to arrive.

Being in the same room with him, in the presence of his calm power, soothed me, settling me in a way nothing else ever had. At the same time, it also charged me, drew me closer, made me want to absorb his energy.

In the pre-party hour, with the cake ready and positioned, I seized a few solitary moments in my self-dosed therapy, thinking about what being with Cade truly meant. He was a complex man, possessing layers beneath layers. And every one of them some part of me craved, needed on a visceral level even I didn’t fully understand. Yet for all that I did know about him, there was so much more I wanted to learn about, to get to know.