Page 1 of Not You Again

MARCH

CHAPTER ONEANDIE

I spend way too much time underneath brides’ skirts.

It’s humid and scratchy under here as I search for the source of the mysterious ripping sound among layers and layers of tulle. When I find the culprit, I dig through my sparkly clutch on the tile floor between my legs for a needle and thread.

I’m getting too damn old for this. My knees ache, nothing between them and ceramic tile except the layer of chiffon from my own skirts. My bodice bites into the skin under my arms as I shift my weight forward to work on the tear.

Just as I have the needle lined up to spear the edges of the tulle together, the bride shifts her weight in her stilettos. The needle misses its mark and stabs directly into my fingertip. I let out a curse, sucking my finger into my mouth.

“Bonnie,” my best friend’s voice says soothingly outside my tulle prison, “I need you to hold still while Andie works, okay?”

“Sorry.” She shifts her weight again. Bonnie Mae is the oldest daughter to Beau Davenport and the heiress to a biscuits and gravy empire. I wish I was kidding. She saw my designs on TikTok and had to have me design her perfect wedding dress. “I didn’t ruin anything, did I?”

Heidi makes a show of raising her voice so I can hear her clearly underneath all these skirts. “What’s the prognosis, Andie?”

I remove my aching finger from my lips and reply from under Bonnie’s skirts, “You tore three of the tulle underlays.”

Bonnie swears, but I send a silent thanks to whoever is up there listening that she hadn’t torn the hem of the overlay she’d insisted on being beaded with Swarovski crystals.

No matter how many times I explain to a bride that wearing a couture dress means that it’s all handsewn and takes time to perfect, they always, always want a last-minute change. As charming as Bonnie is, she’s no exception to the rule. I was in my studio until three in the morning for a solid week trying to get this hem right after she made the last-minute request.

She did the damage to the underlayers during photographs after the ceremony. So here I am, babysitting both bride and dress for the night. When a bride pays ten thousand dollars for a handmade dress, they expect the highest level of service. That includes an onsite seamstress, and as my business consists of me, myself, and I, I often find myself on my knees under skirts as I take care of any dress emergencies that come up.

The rest of the wedding emergencies are up to Heidi to solve. As one of Atlanta’s most sought-after wedding planners, she can whisk away any and all wedding day mischief with a swipe on the tablet I know she has tucked into her Balenciaga bag.

Right now, Heidi’s holding Bonnie still while I finish up with the tulle. The toes of her Jimmy Choos peek from underneath the front of Bonnie’s skirts.

I finish whipstitching the last layer of tulle closed and sever the thread with my teeth before tucking everything back into my bag. I bite back a groan as I maneuver out from under the skirts as gracefully as I can manage in my floor-length gown. Part of being a personal seamstress at one of these weddings is that I absolutely cannot look like I’m here as staff.

I smooth Bonnie’s skirts back down, double- and triple-checking for any damage to the top layer of the design. If she has a single bead or crystal missing, it’s my job to notice and to fix it immediately. If she loves her dress and experience enough, she’ll recommend me to her dearest friends when it comes time for them to get married.

And with a little luck, I might stay in business.

Determining nothing else is awry, I grip the marble counter in the bathroom and hoist myself off the ground, straightening my own dress as I stand.

I toss my clutch on the counter and tell Bonnie, “Good as new.”

“Shit, you don’t think we spent too much time in here, do you?” Bonnie asks in her southern drawl, pulling a flask from her skirt pocket. I never design a wedding dress without pockets, because there’s no earthly reason why not.

Heidi gives me a wry look over Bonnie’s shoulder as she takes a swig of whatever’s in her flask. Southern brides are all smiles and hospitality, but you can always count on bourbon being nearby. “It’s your day,” Heidi tells her as she recaps the flask. “You will take the time you need. Besides, I made sure the band started up during cocktail hour. I doubt anyone’s noticed how long we’ve been in here.”

Bonnie tucks the flask back into her pocket and takes a deep breath, shaking out her shoulders on the exhale. Getting her game face on.

Heidi grips her upper arms. “You look beautiful, and your dress is perfect. Your groom is waiting outside the ballroom for your grand entrance, okay?”

Bonnie nods and gives us both a smile before swooshing away in her gown.

As soon as the heavy bathroom door closes behind her, both Heidi and I slouch our shoulders and lean on the counter. She smooths a stray hair into her perfect French twist and hands me my drink. It’s just club soda with a wedge of lime in it—we’re working, after all—but I’m grateful anyway.

“For someone who doesn’t believe in love, you sure do make some fairy-tale dresses.” Heidi clinks the rim of her glass to mine before taking a sip.

I cover a scoff with a sip of my drink. I feel relief in my raw fingertips and chafed palms at the coolness of the glass. It’s soothing and goddamn necessary, because I just know that beaded hem is too heavy. It’ll get caught underfoot soon enough, and we’ll be back here with me trying to pull everything back together.

If only holding my business together was as simple as fixing a hem.

Heidi sets her drink down and rummages through her own bag. “Did Clover Callaway change her mind?”