Page 211 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“Yeah?” he asks, looking hopeful.
“Yeah, Polly informed me there would be some single and very attractive men attending her wedding. It would be the perfect dress to garner some attention.”
His expression flattens and it almost makes me bust out in laughter, but I keep it together.
“The more I think about it, the more I’m liking the idea of showing more skin,” I say as I pluck a few dresses from the rack that are nothing I would ever wear for a work event, but I think we all know this isn’t really a work event. I can see right through this whole farce.
“That dress?” he asks me as I gather a dress that looks like just a bunch of straps of black fabric.
“Yeah, I think this is the one I want to try on first.” I hand him the rest of the dresses and say, “Pick some more while I try this one on.”
I leave him by the dresses as I work my way to one of the dressing rooms. I’m going to tell you right now, I plan on showing this man what he could have had with no intention of handing it over.
And why?
Because I am a strong woman who doesn’t appreciate a multitude of excuses as to why I can’t be with someone.
You either want me or you don’t.
I don’t need excuse after excuse.
So I am going to be strong and I’m not going to let him convince me otherwise.
**Snorts Steam emoji**
I hang the dress on the hook in the dressing room and close the curtain behind me. Do I wish it was a door? Absolutely, but I will take what I can get. And because I came fully prepared for this moment, knowing damn well what this group of friends is up to, I showed up with no bra—only a thong as an undergarment. He thinks he can mess with me? Ohhhhh no, I’m coming in hot and he’s going to regret it. Cronuts be damned!
I strip down to just my thong and take the strappy dress off the hanger. The thing about Darla’s store is that the dresses she carries are for all occasions. Normally this is not a dress that you would see offered to a bridesmaid, but because I am choosing to be vindictive—don’t be mad at me, be mad at the game he’s playing—then I am going to make him sweat with this outfit.
It takes me a few seconds to get the straps fixed correctly and to be situated properly in the dress without being exposed, but once every scrap of fabric is in the right place, I take a second to look at myself in the mirror.
Dear God in heaven, I wouldneverwear this to a wedding. Never. It’s like the green J-Lo dress, you know the one that stole the show at the Grammys? But instead of long sleeves, there are no sleeves at all. Just two thin straps that barely cover my breasts, but my entire stomach is out in the open. There is nothing left to the imagination, and the only place I see this dress being appropriate attire is at a strip club.
But do you think I’m going to let him think that?
Oh no.
I’m going to march out there, let him believe this is a solid contender, and see what he has to say.
Before I leave though, I reach behind my head and undo my hair from my bun, letting the long black strands fall into wavesaround my shoulders. I adjust my part to add more to my right side, fluff it up, and then smile into the mirror because I know how much he loves it when my hair is down.
If he’s going to mess with me, he’d better be prepared for me to come at him harder.
On a deep breath, I slide the curtain open just in time to catch Hardy walking toward me with an arm full of dresses. The moment his eyes land on my body, his lips part and his expression falls flat.
“What do you think?” I ask as I turn around, letting him see my bare back. “I sent a picture to Polly. I think she might like this. She said to pick whatever I’m comfortable in, and this dress is all airy.”
“Because it has no fabric,” he says as he sets the other dresses on the couch and walks up to me.
“It has fabric,” I say as I tug on one of the straps. That’s when I notice how hard my nipples are.
I think he notices at the same time because his eyes turn dark, and he wets his lips as he closes the space between us. When he gets only a few inches away, I take a step back and hold out my hand.
“Personal space, please,” I say, my hand connecting with his strong, thick chest.
“You’re not wearing this,” he says as he attempts to reach for me, but I step back again.
“Sorry, sir, but you have no right to an opinion.”
