“It would be a crime not to,” I say somberly.
She grins.
We dare each other to try on increasingly outrageous outfits — a leather bomber jacket covered in patches, a full-length mink coat, a bright yellow jumper dress with matching mustard tights.
“Look atthis,” Carly breathes, pushing aside a row of hanging dresses to reveal a floor-length white wedding gown. My eyes widen as I look at it. Ivory silk, with lace sleeves and a full skirt. It simply breathes elegance. Like something Jackie O or Audrey Hepburn would’ve worn.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, walking a few steps closer, despite myself. My hand trembles as I reach out toward it.
“You should try it on.”
I snatch my hand back at Carly’s words, coming to my senses. “That wouldn’t be the smartest idea.”
“Why not?”
I glance through the pane at the two tabloid photographers waiting outside, cameras poised and ready for the moment we emerge. Smith and York, standing in front of the door with menacing expressions, are the only thing keeping them at bay.
“Oh,” she grumbles. “I forgot for a minute about the ever-present paparazzi.”
“It’s not just that.” I’m still staring at the dress. “It’s just way too soon to be thinking about that sort of thing.”
She scoffs. “Too soon? If anything, it’s overdue.”
“Ryder and I have only been together a few weeks.”
“…plus or minus a few years.”
“Most of which, we spent apart,” I remind her.
“So, you’ve never thought about it?” She shoots me a dubious look. “Never even considered what it would be like to marry Ryder?”
Of course I’ve considered it.
I know he has, too.
We’ve never talked about the blue velvet box I found in his bedside table, the morning I left LA. We’ve never discussed the question he would’ve asked; the answer I would’ve given.
“Hello? Paging Felicity Wilde…” Carly’s voice brings me back to the present.
“Sorry.” I swallow hard. “No. I don’t think about it.”
She lets the gown fall back into the depths of the rack with a regretful sigh. “Too bad. That dress would be a dream on you.”
I blink back tears as I turn to a nearby shelf, grabbing the first pair of sunglasses I come across. They’re shaped like stars.
“Theseare more my style!” I shove them onto the bridge of my nose, and look at her over the tops. “What do you think? Glamorous?”
She snorts. “I think, in addition to an agent, you need to find yourself a stylist…”
* * *
The only benefitto having two hulking babysitters trail us around all day is that they carry our packages. By the time we exhaust ourselves and head back to the hotel, both Smith and York are laden down with several bags each, looped over their beefy arms. The mere sight of it makes me smile.
We’re just around the corner from our hotel when the door to a nearby shop swings open. A woman steps out onto the sidewalk and plants herself directly in our path, as though she’s been waiting for us.
My feet go still.
Carly sucks in a sharp breath.