Page 91 of Passing Ships
Lennon hooks an arm around my neck. “Yep. Amiya hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks.”
If looks could kill, he’d fall straight to the floor when my eyes snap to his.
Bastard.
I look back at Allen and smile. He’s handsome. He’s successful. He’s the kind of man most women would fawn all over.
But he does nothing for me.
“I was just on my way to meet the bride and other bridesmaids so we could ride together to get our hair and makeup done. I’ll just call and let them know I’ll meet them there so I can ride with you,” I tell him.
I turn back to Lennon. “See you later.”
“Yeah, you will.”
Allen drops me off with the girls at the venue where the beauticians have set up to do their magic.
He walks across the street to a coffee shop, where he said he would be fine to hang out and make some business calls until it was time for the wedding to start. I feel guilty for abandoning him that way, but I didn’t know what else to do.
I’d asked him if he wanted to be my wedding date because of Lennon.
When I didn’t hear from him after our first night together, I was hurt. And I wanted to avoid the awkwardness of him showing up at the wedding with a date and me being alone.
I hadn’t anticipated the last few weeks.
“Hey, are you okay?” Avie asks.
She’s seated while the stylist flutters around her, curling her long hair.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re just quiet this morning,” she says.
“That’s because I’m sad. I’m losing you to a boy today,” I quip.
She shakes her head.
“Like that would ever happen.”
I step into my dress. It’s a gorgeous, strapless, floor-length sangria-colored satin number.
“You look so pretty, Auntie Miya,” Leia squeals from her perch on the stool next to Avie. “Can I put my dress on?”
“Not yet, baby. We wouldn’t want your pretty white dress to be messed up before the ceremony,” Sabel tells her.
The door to the dressing room cracks open, and Naomie’s head appears.
“Amiya, can I borrow you for a moment?” she asks.
“Sure.” I look at Avie. “I’ll be right back to help you into your gown.”
I walk out into the hallway and shut the door behind me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing from the high pitch of her voice that another crisis is afoot.
“It’s Avie’s bouquet. It’s roses. Not tulips,” Naomie says.
The delivery guy is standing there, waving a work order in the air.