Sutton was making sense, but Tristan was doing me a huge favor. “I’m not in a position to make demands. This is as inconvenient as it gets for him. I don’t need to make it any worse.”
We’d discussed that after we were married, I’d continue living in the house. Up until now, I’d never seen a hint of another woman. Maybe when the papers were signed, he’d bring women back to his place?
My jaw clenched and I turned my mobile over in my hands, itching to message him and ask whether he had a girlfriend. But it was none of my business. We weren’t in a relationship. I had no right to ask him probing questions or make demands on him.
Tristan and I had an arrangement—one that meant that I finally would get access to my trust fund and get to help hundreds of families in need. That’s where our relationship began and ended—even if a small, insistent part of me regretted there couldn’t be more between us.
Seventeen
Parker
I’d never felt more ridiculous in my life. Standing in front of at least twelve mirrors, my mother and Lauren were clinging to each other with one hand and a box of tissues with the other.
“You look so beautiful, my darling,” my mum said through her half sobs.
“You’ve found your dress,” Lauren said, dabbing her eyes. “It’s perfect.”
How was I going to break it to them that I’d rather march naked down the aisle than wear this meringue of a dress?
“Can we see it with the veil?” Lauren said to the sales assistant, Shayna.
“I’m not wearing a veil,” I said. I’d only agreed to try on this ridiculous dress because I thought they’d both agree it was over the top and awful.
“Don’t be silly, darling. This is your wedding.”
“Exactly. My wedding, and I don’t want to wear a veil. I certainly don’t want to wear this dress. The whole point in having a small wedding at a registry office is that it’s low key. This”—I swept my hands down my body—“is very high key.”
My mother looked like I slapped her and instantly, I felt terrible. She thought this was the real deal and was just trying to make things nice.
Lauren cleared her throat and stood. “If you don’t like this dress then we must find you something you do like. There are lots of beautiful dresses here. It’s the best bridal shop in London. What kind of thing did you have in mind?”
“Just something . . . less.”
“Okay,” Lauren said, nodding at Shayna to come and help us. “We’d like something a little more understated. What about a Monique Lhuillier without a train? Something that looks more like evening wear?”
The assistant set to work going through the racks of gowns, pushing the dresses apart to find more options.
“I’m going to change,” I said.
“We’ll find something you’re going to love,” Lauren called after me. “Don’t you worry.”
Thank goodness for Lauren. If she hadn’t been here, I would have either ended up wearing this poufy gown or we would have left the shop and my mother and I would have never spoken again.
I shut the dressing room door and pulled out my phone. There was a message from Tristan asking how the dress shopping was going.
I replied saying that I wanted to shoot myself. My finger hovered over the send button. After my conversation with Sutton earlier, I really wanted to know what Tristan’s deal was. He was gorgeous and successful and thirty-four—I couldn’t expect him to be celibate. But over the last few weeks, he’d never mentioned anyone. Neither of us had. Not to each other anyway.
If I was going to be made a fool of in front of my friends and family, I had a right to know. I deleted the message and wrote out another.
Are you single?
Then I deleted it. Too many loopholes in that one.
Are you seeing anyone?
Deleted. Way too vague.
Are you sleeping with anyone?
It was concise, direct, and the answer would tell me exactly what I wanted to know.
I pressed send and chucked my phone on the bench next to my handbag. If he replied at all, it wouldn’t be any time soon.
I’d just begun to fold my arms around my back, origami style, to unhook the dress, when my phone beeped. It was Tristan.
Not even with my fiancée.
Warmth and relief swirled in my stomach. I knew we had a deal. For both of us, getting married was about getting my trust fund. Except there was a part of me—two percent, perhaps three—that couldn’t help but think that the things I felt during our two kisses the day of our engagement party were . . . real. I’d never felt anything close to the heat, chemistry and connection I’d felt when Tristan had his hands in my hair and his lips on mine. Sutton talking about fireworks was just her typical hyperbole, but her description underplayed how it felt to be kissed by Tristan. Three-point-five percent of me hoped that he’d felt something real too.