Page 27 of Tempt
But no matter how much I told myself this wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t quite bring myself to fully believe it. Somewhere in the timeline, I’d fucked up, whether it was having unprotected sex or beating up her ex or taking off without a goodbye. My hands were not clean.
After texting back that I’d be there, I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. I watched a few Seinfeld reruns, then I turned it off and wandered over to the window, pulling the curtains aside. It was just starting to rain, but I needed some air. I grabbed the keys to my rental SUV and left the hotel, not sure where I was headed—maybe I’d grab a drink and dinner somewhere. It was almost seven and I was starting to get hungry.
Heading in the direction of downtown, I spied a place called Southpaw Brewing Co. that looked good. There were no parking spots on the street, so I pulled past it to circle the block. At the corner, I waited for a trio of women to cross the street before I made my turn, and for a second, I thought I saw Millie among them. I stared at their backs through my blurry windshield, but it was dark and they were moving fast, hurrying through the rain. But there was something about that long hair, and the way this woman carried herself, that struck me as familiar.
The car behind me honked, and I pulled forward, tossing one last glance at the women over my shoulder.
CHAPTER7
MILLIE
Friday morning was gray and drizzly, and Winnie texted that she didn’t feel like going to HIIT class. I grabbed an umbrella and went by myself, and afterward I walked up the street to Frannie’s bakery, Plum & Honey. Her coffee was always the best, and I wanted to run Winnie’s idea about the plus-sized bridal salon by her.
Frannie was someone whose judgment I trusted, and she’d started her own business too. Plus, she’d grown up at Cloverleigh Farms—that’s where she’d met our dad—and I knew ifshesaid leaving the security of my job there wasn’t bananas, it would be the truth.
Beneath the striped awning, I shook off my umbrella, then went inside. Frannie looked up from where she stood pouring coffee behind the counter. “Well, good morning. What a nice surprise.”
“Hi.” Leaving my dripping umbrella by the door, I approached the marble counter and pointed at the pot in her hands. “Got some of that for me?”
“Always. To go? Or can you sit for a minute?”
“I can sit for a minute. I want to get your take on something, if you have time.”
Frannie looked pleased. “I always have time for my girls. Want breakfast? I just took scones out of the oven—blueberry lemon thyme, your favorite.”
“Mmm. Okay.” The bakery wasn’t as crowded as usual—probably because of the weather—and I grabbed a stool at the white marble counter. After shrugging out of my coat, I pulled some hand sanitizer from my bag and gave my hands a quick rub.
“So what’s up?” Frannie asked, placing a cup of steaming black coffee and a small plate with a scone on it in front of me.
I gave her a brief rundown of my meeting yesterday and the conversation with Winnie and Felicity over dinner last night. “Felicity mentioned this friend of hers that had to go out of state to find a shop that carried dresses in her size. It’s just not right.”
“No, it isn’t,” Frannie agreed. “That’s why you’re doing the fashion show, right?”
“Yes, but that’s a one-time thing. It will be done in a day. And brides will still have to special-order any dress they see that they like.”
A crease appeared between her brows. “I see what you’re saying. It’s not a long-term solution.”
“Exactly.” I fidgeted on my stool. “I mean, the story of finding your wedding dress is one a woman will tell her children and grandchildren. No one wants that story to be, ‘Well, I was treated like crap and nothing fit, and in the end, I settled for a gown I didn’t really love because my options were so limited.’ Shopping for the dress should make a bride feel celebrated, it should be part of the love story, not an exercise in frustration and shame.”
“You sound really passionate about this,” Frannie said.
“Ifeelpassionate about it. If curvy brides aren’t free to choose a dress style that makes them feel beautiful because the industry thinks they need to cover up, what are we saying? That only certain bodies are worthy of telling a love story? Ireject that!” I banged a fist on the counter twice.
Frannie smiled at my fervor and nodded. “Good. Everyone should.”
“I feel this spark of—of inspiration. Of wanting to be part of the change. I know the fashion industry is making strides toward body positivity, but the progress might not be quick enough for a bride around here who needs a dress in four months.” My mind was going a hundred miles per hour now. “If and whenI’mready to look for a wedding dress, if I don’t find something I like around here, I know designers I could call. Or I could always design my own gown. But that’s not the case for most women, you know? I want to help.”
“Millie, I think you know the answer to whatever question you came in here to ask me,” Frannie said wryly.
“But I love what I do now,” I fretted, “andwhereI do it, so is it nuts to consider leaving that job to start my own business? To upend my life? I just bought a house! I can’t afford to go broke.”
Frannie shrugged. “It’s a bold move, and a risk, but I’ve never known you to shy away from a bold move. Do some research. Crunch some numbers. Reach out to those plus-sized salon owners in other states and maybe to some designers. Then see how you feel.”
The bell rang as a customer came in off the street, and I picked up my coffee again. “You better get back to work. Thanks for listening.”
“I’m always here for you.” She blew me a kiss and moved over to the display case to greet the couple who’d come in, and I picked up my phone to scroll through my messages.
That’s when I noticed I had a voicemail from Mason.
