“Thanks. Yeah, I did. I was just starting to wrap things up here.”
“No worries. I still have to go through the final financial audit report files you left for me. Thought I’d take a break first.” Jack stepped inside, and Boone closed the door behind him. “That’s some good snow out there.” Jack stomped his boots on the large floor mat.
“Tell me about it. All our wedding plans have been completely disrupted.”
“You never struck me as the big-wedding type.”
“Have you seen my fiancée? Everything about Vivien is big-wedding type.” Even he could hear the haze in his voice. “And her type is my type,” he finished, hoping he’d concealed a bit of his planning fatigue.
“You seem less than excited.”
Okay, maybe he hadn’t quite covered the wedding weariness. “She’s stressed about all these plans, and a little of me is starting to feel…” Oh, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go there.
“Like?” Jack narrowed his blue eyes.
“I don’t know.” Except he did. He knew exactly how he was starting to feel.
Jack stood there, watching. Waiting.
Fine. “Like the plans are more important than the marriage.”
“I think many a groom has walked in those shiny shoes.”
“Yeah. Probably.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“You know, on the other side, the future awaits.” Jack set his eyes on Boone, wisdom and knowing in them.
Yeah, Jack, a former convict, knew a few things about that. Boone could only imagine what it had felt like to finally get to walk free. To start over. To walk into a new future.
And that’s what he and Vivien were doing. Starting fresh as husband and wife. And yeah, there were bound to be some growing pains.
For the first time since the storm had hit, he felt like the sun was truly starting to shine.
CHAPTER 6
WEDNESDAY, 12:45 P.M.
Under different circumstances, Vivien might just like the snow. And, to be sure, she should really appreciate the fact that the storm had broken and her wedding was still more go than no-go.
But she was getting tired and impatient—she just really needed to grab her dress and get back to Wilder House. Tackle the rest of her list. Cross every last item off.
She should have spoken up when Boone had to run home to look for—what was it? Batteries?
She’d borrowed Ree’s phone to tell him where she was, and when he finally pulled up in front of the bakery, she said goodbye to Ree and climbed into the truck.
She settled into the truck seat and crossed her arms.
“Sorry, it took longer than expected.” He reached over and let his fingers brush across hers, then left them there. Waited.
She let the warmth soak into her. Melt a bit of the freeze she’d been feeling. She took a breath. Let her hand weave into his.
Yeah, they could do this.
She squeezed his hand. “We’ll need to hustle at this point. I still have seven items on this list to tackle before dinner tonight.”
He drove straight to the dry cleaner’s, and Vivien didn’t even wait for him. As soon as he put the truck into park, she was out the door.
Grab and go.
She pushed through the entrance and waited while Alecia Miller helped another customer, who paid for a stack of dry-cleaned suits, scooped them up, and headed out the door.
Alecia bent over, pen in hand, making careful notes on a pickup tag before taking several dropped-off dress shirts and moving them to a new rack.
Vivien stepped up to the counter, and Boone stepped into the spot just behind her.
“Hi there.” Vivien smiled.
Alecia turned from the rack and adjusted her messy auburn bun. “Good afternoon, Vivien. How can I help you?”
“Good afternoon. I stopped by Kate’s Alterations earlier today, and she said she’d sent my wedding dress over for steaming.”
“Sure.” Alecia stepped back and activated the button on the garment conveyor. Paused. Sorted through several shirts with plastic over them. “Did she leave it under her name or yours?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me check under yours.”
Vivien tried not to tap her foot. Tried not to hop up and down. Anticipation hummed through her veins at an impossible volume. “You can’t peek,” she said to Boone, reaching back to give his hand a squeeze.
“If you say so.”
She turned around, still holding his hand. “I do.” She planted a quick kiss on his lips. “Thanks for coming with me. I know it’s been a crazy morning.” In all the busyness and stress of their day, she’d let the joy in those moments slip away from them.
“I don’t mind. We’ll get your dress stowed at Wilder House and see what’s left on that list of yours.” He looked over her shoulder. “Is that mani-pedi for me? Maybe a spray tan for St. Thomas?”
Now he was goading her. “Very funny.” She gave him a once-over. “Though, you are looking a little winter-white.”
His smile faded. “I am not getting a spray tan.”
“Says the man in the Christmas sweater.” Vivien giggled and turned back to Alecia, who activated the garment conveyor again. Stopped it.
Vivien blew out a breath. “Okay, look away,” she instructed Boone. She pointed toward the door, and he complied with a low laugh.
This time Alecia lifted a large dress bag from the rack and hung it on the hook at the end of the counter. “Here you go.” She pulled the tag. “No charge for you—Kate prepaid for this.”
Vivien stared at the dress through the clear plastic bag. “I’m sorry— You grabbed the wrong one. This isn’t my dress.” She looked at the tag Alecia had set on the counter.
VIVIEN CALHOUN PREPAID
A tremble started in her gut, a sinking, spinning sensation. She rubbed her palms against her coat pockets.
Boone turned around and looked at the dress, his jaw a little slack. “Oh.” It came out somewhere between a gasp of horror and grunt of disbelief.
Exactly. Even he could see this was not the right dress. A circa-1980s high-neck nightmare, complete with poufy sleeves and a beaded heart cutout.
Alecia looked at the tag and checked her conveyor again. “I don’t understand. This is the dress tagged for you.”
“I don’t know how or why this tag”—Vivien waved the paper card—“got put on that dress.” She pointed at the gown. “But that isn’t my dress.” She drew her hands up and down at the fashion-don’t on the counter hook. “I mean, look at it.” She lifted the gauzy plastic that had come untied. It even had a bow. “This”—she pointed a shaky finger—“is not my dress.”
Seriously—a vintage gown was one thing. But that? No. Not her dress.
Boone raised his hands, as if to mediate. “I’m sure this…lovely dress means a great deal to someone, but perhaps you could locate Vivie’s actual dress?”
“I see.” Alecia gaped at the dress, and her brows drew into a deep line. “Yeah. That doesn’t look like it would be the right dress.”
“It isn’t.”
Alecia tucked the gown back into the plastic bag and tied off the end. Set it aside.