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.
“Gorgeous,” Mimi gushed. “I always wanted a big wedding for your mom but she eloped.”
“Is there a particular one you like?” the saleslady asked me.
“No, Bette, but thank you.” I softened the next part with a smile. “Do you mind if we go ahead with the interview now? The girls can change if they want, and we can browse your store afterwards.” I hated the thought of them just standing there while we talked.
Bette looked horrified at my words. Ugh. I was failing at this horribly. I wasn’t acting like a typical bride.
“Yes, that’s fine, but the girls will remain,” she said. “They are here for you. Please let me know if you’d like to see any of the girls in another design.” She marched off, her back straight.
“Damn,” Isabella whispered to me under her breath as she peered at me over the rim of her champagne glass. “Rich people really know how to shop, snooty saleslady and all.”
Carrie, who’d been quiet during the entire viewing of the dresses, beamed when I turned my attention to her.
“You ready?” I asked.
She nodded and pulled out a voice recorder and a pad and pen. She started in with her questions, first beginning with how Max and I met. We’d worked on our “meet-cute” story since that first day in A&P and had decided to stick as close to it as we could. In other words, we’d met at a frat party briefly and had reconnected over the summer when we bumped into each other at the coffee shop.
“What’s Max Kent really like?” Carrie asked, twirling her pen. “We’re all dying to know.” Her face flushed. “I’m a big fan of his too.”
“Oh, you like football?” Mimi asked eagerly. She’d talk to a fencepost about sports.
Carrie shrugged. “No. He’s just hot.”
“Oh.” Mimi settled back down.
So much for that.
I rambled off some answer about how smart Max was. Other answers came to mind—soulmate, incredible lover, brave, tender—but I pushed those aside.
“So is the date set yet?” Carrie asked.
A snort came from Isabella, and I sent her a glare. Don’t mess this up for him, I conveyed. She stuck her tongue out at me, and Mimi popped her on the leg. Isabella flinched and ended up spilling a bit of champagne on the front of her shirt. I giggled. I’d woken up in a bad mood, knowing I was coming here, but I loved my little family.
I focused back on Carrie and smiled as I lied through my teeth. “We’re planning on late next year, but no venue has been chosen. The draft is in January, so as soon as we know what team he’ll play for, we’ll be moving . . .” my voice trailed off.
Max would be leaving Atlanta—and me—soon.
“I’m the maid of honor,” Isabella told her with a smug smile, reaching over to the tray on the ottoman style coffee table. She grabbed the champagne bottle and poured herself another glass.
“Yes,” I said.
“Be sure you spell my name right too, Isabella Monroe. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A and M-O-N-R-O-E.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t exactly warmed up to Max since he’d sprung the proposal, but she was trying because I asked her to. I was committed to the fake fiancée stuff because I wanted Max to have everything he wanted. Mimi, on the other hand, continued to sing his praises.