He’s right. I never wear white. I don’t even wear light colors. Firstly, with my pale skin and dark hair, light colors make me look like a sickly Victorian child. And secondly, I’m a grub. Chef knows this and instead of a white wedding dress, hanging on the hook is a midnight blue dress. The bottom is poofy and frilly and the right amount of girly, but the top? The top is what has my breath hitching. It’s a deep V neckline, beaded and lacy with tiny little sparkles. It’s everything a wedding dress shouldn't be, but I guess this wedding is also everything a wedding shouldn't be. It shouldn't be rushed. It shouldn't be for safety from a monster. It shouldn't be to someone you used to love until they broke your heart. And yet, at this moment, after these past few weeks, standing here with Chef in his empty room with nothing but a breathtakingly gorgeous dress he chose for me, I may not be in love with him like I once was, but I’m in something with him. Something deeper. Quieter. More dangerous.
“Sage?”
“It’s perfect, Chef. It’s perfectly me.”
Chef
My breath whooshes out of me and my stomach contents settleback where they belong and not in the back of my throat ready to evacuate and hit the wood floors. I definitely thought Sage would think I was overstepping and kick me in the balls, but instead she’s standing in front of the dress I bought, her long, slim fingers gently caressing at the deep V lace of the dress.
My eyes trace her small, curvy body. The gentle rise and fall of her shoulders when she takes a deep breath and then lets it out. The way her silky hair slides across her back when her head tilts to take in some tiny detail on the hem of the dress. The way she turns to me, all wide eyed, her dark eyes glistening in the low light.
“I knew as soon as I saw it, that it was the one,” I say roughly.
She gives me a shaky smile, stepping closer until her dusty cowgirl boots meet my beat up biker boots. Her gaze searches mine, for what, I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. Not when it seems like she’s gazing deep into my soul, seeing too damn much. Her hand comes to rest on my cheek and my eyes roll closed at the first contact I have had with Sage for almost a year. My head is heavy as I lean against her palm, my stomach dipping at the thought that any moment now she will take this away from me, reject me like I did her. I would deserve it. Every minute, every second of rejection I would deserve. I keep my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to open them and have this moment float away as if it were a dream.
My whole body jolts when I feel her sweet breath against me, a split second before her gentle lips touch mine. Soft. Smooth. Plump. Sipping at mine before pulling away. My knees almost fucking give out in relief and my hands find Sage’s neck, thumbs brushing her throat gently as I rest my forehead against hers, searching her gaze.
Swallowing, I feel the words written on my soul, burning my tongue to escape, “Sage, I’m sor-”
“I don’t want your words Chef.” She steps back, breaking the contact. “I forgave you a long time ago,” she says softly and for one stupid fucking second, hope punches the air from my lungs. “I just haven't figured out a way to forget just yet.” And there it is. The bullet to my heart. The one that splits open my chest.
With that she gives me a tight smile and a nod, before turning on her heel and heading to the door. Panic claws up my throat. I’d do anything to get her back. Crawl across broken glass. Drop to my fucking knees. Spend the rest of my life proving I can love her right this time. I’d take a bullet for her over and over again if it meant feeling her soft palm against my face one more time.
“Sage -” I rasp out, the panic in my throat stealing my voice.
She freezes in the doorway, shoulders back, head held high like a fucking queen. She looks over her shoulder at me, dark eyes full of pain and a glimmer of hope.
“Just… keep doing what you’re doing.”
And there it is. Hope.
Chapter Eleven
Sage
Ihave no idea what the heck a bachelorette party is meant to entail, but I bet it’s not watching teeny tiny Joe riding a huge inflatable peen while Chewy schools her on why the Fibonacci sequence could have her riding “at least 34% better.”
“It’s because she can’t torture people at the moment,” Rhodie grumbles in his voice that sounds like the man gargles rocks. “She’s been hitting the books hard. I blame Jules.”
Jules just raises his brow and ignores Rhodie, which seems to piss the DRMC VP off even more. He flips everyone the bird before he scoops up their daughter and their gator and tries to distract Chewy.
“I don’t know why he just doesn't leave her be,” Pops bitches beside me. Yes, my bachelorette party is being attended byRhodie, JulesandPops. Something about needing to keep an eye on us.
“Because boys are dumb. But they’re also super pretty and let you do bad things to them,” Mom says, her mouth agape, tongue searching lazily for her straw which fell out of her oversized martini glass about three gulps ago.
“I’d rather not hear what you and Tav get up to,” I grumble, watching as she shrugs and then tips the whole glass back.
It’s nice to see Mom enjoying herself, almost black out drunk. She doesn't get to do that too often, but Tav has promised that he’ll take the kids out for pancakes tomorrow morning so she can sleep in.
An image pops up of Chef, a kid in each arm, walking out the door to give me a peaceful morning after drinks with my Girl Gang and my chest tightens a little. As much as I want to stay mad at him and his stupid decision, I find I can’t. Not when he spends every waking moment doing little things that make me smile. And that dress? Holy fucking shitballs. That dress is exactly what I would have picked had I gone shopping myself. Every little detail, every scrap of lace, every button is perfect for me. And he knew. Just like I know him. I know how he feels about himself. Deep down there's a little boy who learnt he wasn't good enough.
“Ohh girl, you look like you’re thinkin’ too much,” Joe says, huffing and puffing after sliding off the giant dick ride.
“Cold feet?” Loyal asks.
“Why do they say that?” Chewy asks out loud, ignoring Rhodie looming over her. “What does that have to do with anything? Put socks on if they’re cold.”
Mira stifles a snort and smiles lovingly at Chewy. Who ignores the look and instead frowns down at her orange juice.