The Perfect Hope

the detailing, the beading …” Avery enlarged the beadwork on the flow of skirt. “It’s all small scale.”

“Like you.”

“Yeah. The skirt’s got some flare and flow, but no poof.” She sighed a little. “I’d love the poof. If you can’t have poof on your wedding day, when? I asked myself that, and concluded, for me, never. And I’m too white to wear white so the ivory will warm me up. I’m going to skip the veil, just go for a sparkly tiara type deal. That’s my princess thing. I want something princessy.”

“You’ll look like one in this,” Hope decided, taking the tablet to move, shift, enlarge, shrink the image for her own judgment. “A fairy princess. You’re right to go with flow instead of poof, the higher waistline, the smaller, more delicate details. I think you’ll look gorgeous.”

“You’ve got a ‘but’ buried in there.”

“It’s just if you order it this way, you can’t try it on, compare it with others, feel the material.”

“I can try it on when it gets here, feel the material. And if it doesn’t make the grade, I can send it back.”

Hope thought of the thrill, the one-time excitement, of surrounding yourself with wedding gowns, the silk, the tulle, the subtle shades of white.

And realized that was her thrill much more than Avery’s.

“That’s all true.”

“I’ll model it for you and Clare. And Justine. There’s plenty of time if it doesn’t work to look for another.”

After one last study—of the dress and her friend—Hope handed the tablet back. “You love it.”

“I love the picture. I want to see if I love it when I’m wearing it.”

“Then you should order it.”

“Good, because I’ve got it holding in the shopping cart, with everything filled out. All I have to do is …” Avery tapped, swiped, gulped, and pressed Order Now. “Oh God, I just bought a wedding dress. Hope.”

With a laugh, and damp eyes, Hope leaned over and into the bouncing hug.

“How does it feel?”

“Scary, and good. And exciting to order something that doesn’t cook, freeze, or flush, which is what I’ve been spending money on lately.”

“I want to know the minute it comes in.”

“Promise. I guess it’s a little too soon to check the tracking.” Avery grinned, brought the image back up just to look at it. “Which I’ll be doing every hour on the hour until it gets here.”

“Shoes. You need absolutely fabulous shoes.”

“I want mile-high shoes,” Avery declared. “Sexy, gorgeous, mile-high shoes. I can change into a lower pair when the dancing gets serious, but I want to feel tall. Sparkly, I think, like the tiara, so I’ve got sparkle head and foot.”

“Excellent idea.” Hope narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got those book-marked, too.”

“Actually, I have three pairs bookmarked.”

Hope tapped the tablet. “Let’s have a look.”

They spent the next ten minutes debating pumps, strappy sandals, and peep-toes. Hope nixed the pumps— beautiful but too refined, and on her advice, Avery ordered both other pairs, to have that comparison when she tried on the dress.

“I knew I could count on you for the best shoe advice.” Avery laid her fingers on the dress one last time, then set the tablet aside. “So, things with you and Ry? All smoothed out?”

“There’s nothing between me and Ryder, apparently. I haven’t spoken to him since the day before yesterday.”

“God. If I had to choose which one of you is more stubborn, I’d judge it a dead heat.”

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m right here if he wants to talk to me.”

“And he’s right there if you want to talk to him.” With a roll of her eyes, Avery jabbed a finger toward the door. “Don’t you even want to know what he said to Jonathan’s father, and vice versa?”

“It’s not relevant.” Even if it did drive her a little crazy. “Besides, you know. He’d have told Owen by now.”

Avery hissed out a breath. “So instead of having an actual conversation with Ryder, you want to circle around to what he told Owen to what Owen told me?”

“Yes.”

“But not stubborn,” Avery added.

“Are you going to tell me Ryder had a right to go down there and confront Baxter Wickham without talking to me first?”

Heaving out a breath, Avery rose, got a soda from the fridge. This would take longer than she’d planned, and might be thirsty work. “You grew up with a sister and a mom as well as a brother and a dad. Me? It was mostly me and my dad, and the surrogate family of the Montgomerys, which was three guys. I have more of a guy perspective about some stuff.”

“Which means?”

“I think Ry did exactly what Ry’s instincts told him to do—or his secondary instinct, because the first would’ve been to hunt Jonathan down and turn him into pulp. I like his first instinct, but you wouldn’t. His second was civilized.”

“Civilized?”

At Hope’s appalled tone, Avery lifted her shoulders, spread her hands. “Sorry, that’s my take. He drove all the way to D.C., and you should know he hates going down there. Ryder would consider the 270 corridor the seventh circle of Hell. Plus, he would’ve been pissed at losing a half a day’s work. But he did that because nobody was going to screw with you that way and get away with it.”

“But—”

“Relationships aren’t always rational and balanced, Hope. They’re human. And you’re in a relationship with a guy who’s wired to act rather than talk about it—discuss, debate, weigh alternative options. Harder for you because you’re the talk and discuss and weigh-it type. You’re not wrong, either of you. You’re just dealing with different wiring.”

Understanding her closest friend stood on the other side of that line, or at least straddled it, made for a tough swallow. But honesty meant more than lip service.

Usually.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re too different.”

“So are Owen and I. In fact, he’s more like you; I’m more like Ry. But I’m not in love with Ryder. I’m not going to marry Ryder in the dress I just bought. I’m messy and impulsive and fly off quicker than most. But Owen doesn’t try to change me.”

“I’m not trying to change Ryder. That’s not what I want to do,” she amended when Avery just winged up her eyebrows. “It’s my mess, Avery.”

“Bullshit. I tied myself up over my mother with the same narrow logic. I was wrong.”

“You think I’m wrong now.”

“I think you and Ryder need to have a damn conversation instead of sulking. And yes, you are, too.”

Despite herself, Hope laughed. “I like to think of it as being thoughtful. Well, damn it, tell me what Ryder said to Baxter Wickham and what Baxter said to Ryder.”

“No.” Avery rose, nodded firmly. “Ask Ryder.”

Disagreement might be a tough swallow, but dissension lodged sticky in the throat. “Avery!”

“No. And I’m leaving now before I cave in. I love you, so I’m not going to help you evade something we both know you need to deal with for yourself. Maybe things won’t work with you and Ryder, but the two of you should give each other the courtesy of some damn words.”

Sincerely stunned, Hope stared after Avery as her friend snatched up her iPad, marched to the door, flipped the lock and sailed out.

“Well, damn it,” she repeated.

Now she had to know what had been said or it would drive her crazy. And maybe Avery had a point, a half a point anyway. Still, she could hardly go to Ryder and ask. And she couldn’t—wouldn’t— apologize for having feelings and a point of view.

She might think about the situation as it stood, consider various solutions. But she wasn’t just going to cave.