I stood before the mirror, holding up the fifth dress in as many minutes, and frowned.
Too stiff.
I dropped it onto the bed where it joined the growing sea of rejected silk, tulle, and chiffon. Navy, emerald, champagne. All elegant. All wrong. Or maybe I was spiraling, imagining every camera flash and every glance from a stranger who'd see me on Mark's arm and wonder what I was doing there.
Pretend, I reminded myself. This is all still pretend.
Except nothing about it felt that way anymore. Not after the way he'd looked at me that morning. Not after how his fingers had brushed mine during coffee like he didn't want to stop touching me. Not after the way my heart ached every time he left a room and I wished—stupidly, dangerously—that he'd stay.
