Wow, that’s dark. Drink up, Debbie Downer.
I guzzle the rest of the mimosa. It takes me another few minutes of pacing and wringing my hands before I work up the nerve to unzip the garment bag. When I do, the contents spill out with a sigh.
I stare at it. Tears pool in my eyes.
It’s beautiful, this stupid cursed dress. It’s a gorgeous custom-fitted cloud of silk and lace and seed pearls, the most expensive garment I’ve ever owned.
The most loved and hated.
I quickly strip down to only my panties, then take the dress off its hanger and step inside the full skirt. Pulling it up over my hips, I try to ignore how fast my heart is beating. I slip the halter straps over my head, then reach around behind me to zip the whole thing up.
Then I walk slowly to the floor-length mirror on the opposite side of the room and stare at myself.
The gown is a sleeveless halter style with a plunging neckline, an open back, and a cinched waist. It’s all overlaid with lace and decorated with tiny pearls and crystals. The princess skirt has a train embellished to match. The long veil hangs in the closet in its own bag, but I’m not brave enough to put the entire outfit together. Just getting the dress on is traumatic enough.
So is the jarring fact that it doesn’t fit.
Frowning, I pinch a few inches of loose fabric around the waist.
I’ve lost weight since I last had it on at the final fitting two weeks before the wedding. I’ve never been curvy to begin with, but it’s only now that I realize I’m too thin.
David wouldn’t have approved of this body. He was always encouraging me to eat more and work out more, to look more like Sloane.
I’d forgotten how much that hurt my feelings until right now.
I turn slowly left and right, lost in memories and mesmerized by how the crystals catch the light and sparkle, until the sound of the doorbell jolts me out of my daze.
It’s Sloane. She’s early.
My first instinct is to tear off the dress and stuff it guiltily back into the closet. But then it occurs to me that seeing me in it—and seeing me calm—is the best way to reassure her that I’m fine. That she doesn’t have to be so vigilant about watching over me.
I mean, if I can handle this, I can probably handle anything, right?
I shout toward the front door, “Come in!” Then I stand calmly in front of the mirror and wait.
The front door opens and closes. Footsteps echo through the living room, then stop.
“I’m back here!”
The footsteps start up again. Sloane must be wearing boots, because it sounds like a moose is clomping through my house.
I smooth my hands down the bodice of the dress, expecting to see Sloane’s head pop through the door. But the head that appears isn’t hers.
Gasping, I whirl around and stare in horror at Kage.
He dwarfs the doorway. He’s in all black again, leather and denim, combat boots to match. In his big hands is a package, a brown box sealed with tape.
On his face is a look of open astonishment.
Lips parted, he stares at me. His heated gaze rakes up and down my body. He exhales in an audible huff.
Feeling like I’ve been caught masturbating spread-eagle on the kitchen floor, I cover my chest with my arms and cry, “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“You told me to come in.”
God, that voice. That rich, husky baritone. If I wasn’t so horrified, I might think it was hot.
“I thought you were someone else!”
His unblinking gaze rakes over me again, head to toe, as focused and intense as a laser. He moistens his lips.
For some reason, I find that simple gesture both sexy and menacing.
His voice drops to a growl. “You getting married?”
It could be the embarrassment, the surprise, or the fact that this man was so rude to me last night, but all at once, I’m furious. My voice shaking and my face hot, I take a step toward him.
“None of your business. What are you doing here?”
For some reason, my anger amuses him. A hint of a smile crosses his lips, there then quickly vanished. He gestures with the box in his hands. “UPS left this on my porch. It’s addressed to you.”
“Oh.”
Now I’m even more flustered. He’s being a friendly neighbor. Judging by his performance last night, I would’ve expected him to set the box on fire and kick it over the back fence, not hand-deliver it.
My bubble of anger deflates.
“Okay. Thanks. You can just leave it on the dresser.”
When he doesn’t move and only stands there staring at me, I fold my arms over my chest and stare right back.
After a moment of blistering awkwardness, Kage flicks a dismissive hand at my dress. “It doesn’t suit you.”
I feel my eyes bulging but don’t care. “Excuse me?”
“Too fussy.”
He’s lucky I’m not wearing the veil, because I’d wrap it around his neck and strangle him with it.
“For future reference, if you see a woman wearing a wedding gown, the only acceptable thing to tell her is that she looks beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” comes the hard reply. “But it has nothing to do with that fussy fucking dress.”
After that, he snaps his jaw shut. I get the distinct feeling he’s regretting his words.
Then he stomps over to the dresser, tosses the box on top, and stomps out, leaving me openmouthed in shock, my heart palpitating.
When the front door slams shut, I’m still standing there trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
A few moments later, I hear an odd noise. It’s a repetitive sound, a muffled whump whump whump like someone’s beating out a dirty rug with a broom. I go to the window and look out, trying to identify where the sound is coming from.
That’s when I spot him.
The street I live on is sloped, climbing several feet from one lot to the next. The elevation allows for a view into the neighboring yard, so that from where I’m standing, I can see over the fence of the house next door. I also have a clear view of the living room window.
The drapes are usually drawn, but now they’re open.
In the middle of the room is a punching bag hanging from a heavy metal frame, the kind boxers use to train on. It appears to be the only furniture.
Throwing vicious punches at the bag is a bare-fisted Kage.
He’s taken off his shirt. I stand frozen to the spot, watching him hit the bag over and over, watching him jab and dance, watching all the muscles of his upper body ripple.
Watching his tattoos move and flex with every blow.
He’s covered in them, chest and back and all down both arms. Only his abs are bare of ink, a fact I’m grateful for, because it allows a clear view of his taut, muscled belly.
That he works out religiously is obvious. He’s in incredible physical shape. Also obvious is that he’s in a rage about something and is taking it out on that poor piece of gym equipment.
Unless something happened in the sixty seconds since he walked out my door, whatever he’s enraged about has to do with me.
He throws one final punch at the bag, then steps back and lets out a roar of frustration. He stands there, chest heaving, flexing his hands open and closed, until he happens to turn and glance at the window.
Our eyes lock.
I’ve never seen a look like his. There’s so much darkness in his eyes, it’s frightening.