The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

“Better,” Lia whisper-croaked in response, and everybody winced at the sound of her voice.

“Ugh, don’t talk, okay? You sound like an old man who’s been smoking a pack a day for the last eighty years.”

Ah, Daff. Ferociously descriptive as always.

Sam, who could hear everything, snorted in amusement, and Lia shot him a glare. He widened his eyes and lifted his shoulders, obviously battling a grin.

“So what’s the plan?” Lia asked, ignoring her sister’s previous comment.

“Daff has to tell us what kind of dress she has in mind. I’m thinking something princessy and poofy.” Daisy grinned.

“Over my dead body!” Daff dismissed.

“I want to see you in a poofy dress, Daff,” Charlie piped up. “It’s always been my dream to get married in a poofy dress.”

“Your dream, kid,” Daff said pointedly. “Not mine. And you’d better not let your brothers know you’re dreaming about wedding dresses already. Spencer will shit a brick and then badger me for information about any secret boyfriends you may have.”

“Well, what’s your dream wedding dress?” Daisy prodded, and Daff rolled her eyes.

“A bikini . . . in Thailand!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” her mother gasped, sounding genuinely terrified that Daff would follow through on her words.

“Nope. We’re doing this thing,” Daff said grudgingly. “So I suppose I’m looking for something simple and elegant. A bit vintage.”

“And boring,” Charlie pouted. A shop attendant, who had been listening to the exchange, directed them to a rack of stunning crystal-encrusted designer gowns, all gorgeous and elegant. They picked out a few to try on, and Daff disappeared into the dressing room to get changed. Another attendant brought a bowl of fresh strawberries and champagne for the ladies—sparkling grape juice for Charlie. Sam, who was remaining discreetly in the background, but also seemed to be following the flow of conversation, brought Lia some sparkling water in a champagne flute. She giggled appreciatively when he presented the glass with a flourish.

Daisy was holding the phone and all Lia could see were feet and floor as the other ladies looked through the dresses while waiting for Daff.

The attendant announced that Daff was ready to show the first dress, and everybody scrambled to sit down. Lia made a frustrated sound when Daisy’s camera skills left a lot to be desired. Her hand kept moving, her finger partially obscured the view, and she kept muffling the speaker with her hand. Sam peeked over her shoulder to see what the problem was and swore.

“Hey, Daisy! Hand the phone over to Charlie—her camerawork is bound to be better, she spends so much time taking selfies.”

“Hey!” they heard Charlie protest, and Daisy’s hand wobbled.

“Is that Brand? Why is Brand with Lia . . . What’s going on?”

“We’ll explain later, now hand the phone over, Daisy. Daff will be right out. I don’t want Lia to miss it,” their mother urged impatiently.

“Fine,” Daisy muttered, sounding disgruntled, and there was a moment of confusion as the phone exchanged hands. Sam was right—the girl was a much better camerawoman than Daisy.

“Thanks,” she murmured, then shooed him away. This was a girls-only affair. He winked at her and retreated again, just in time.

Everybody inhaled collectively when Daff entered the room. Or rather, she trudged into the room. She looked far from happy.

“This looks like a frickin’ nightgown, doesn’t it?” she complained. “The collar is also way too high, and all this lace is really scratchy.”

Womp, Womp, Womp, Womp!

Lia stared at her glass of water and really wished it was alcohol, because she sensed this was going to be a long day.

It was on the sixth dress that the nascent bridezilla stepped out of the dressing room, looked at her reflection, and promptly burst into tears.

Everybody else was sighing and sniffling, too, because Daff looked absolutely beautiful.

It was a slinky silver-white 1920s-style dress, with intricate, scalloped beadwork, a modest V-neck, and sheer, beaded butterfly sleeves. It had a dramatically low scoop back and a slight chapel train, also with that intricate embroidery and beadwork to give it that extra wow factor.

“Oh my God, you look amazing,” Daisy breathed reverently, breaking the hush that had descended over the group.

“Isn’t it too much? It’s too much, right?” Daff lamented, unable to take her eyes off her reflection. “Spencer won’t recognize me in this. It’s . . . it’s . . . Oh my God, I love it. How can I love it? It’s just a dress.”

“It’s so pretty,” Charlie said. “You look like a movie star or something.”

“Mom?” Daff’s voice was questioning, and Charlie swiveled the phone to focus on their mother, who was fanning her face with one hand and dabbing at the tears on her cheek with the other.

“You look beautiful and you know it’s the right dress. We all know it.”

“It’s so expensive. We could use the money for our honeymoon or something, it seems a waste to—”