Aw, stop. You already have my business.
“How far along are you?”
And now you don’t.
The way she looks like she swallowed one of her cupcakes whole tells me my expression must’ve turned murderous.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s just that you, ah, have, ah…such a lovely glow!”
“Thank you. Come on, Keats.” I grab him by the arm and pull.
He reaches for the cupcake stand and grabs another one, this time with a carefully crafted white rose on top.
“For the baby,” he tells the blushing vendor with a wink.
When we’re a few metres away he turns to me.
“Cupcake?” He holds it out towards me.
“No thanks.” I already look pregnant. I could do with one less cupcake. And I’m never wearing this bloody outfit again.
“Come on. You’re not one of those boring girls who don’t eat anything fun, are you?”
I fix him with an impatient glare. Clearly, I’m not.
Keats smiles at me, more tempting than the sugar-filled food in his hand.
“I’ll go halves with you,” he negotiates. “Look at this place. We’ll need all the strength we can get.”
“Fine. Give me half.”
He peels the white paper off half the cake, plucks the sugar rose on top and bites off his share of the sponge. He extends the remainder to me with his left hand, the white rose with his right.
“Thanks.” My fingers graze his as I take possession of the sweets, tingling afterwards even when we’re already walking to the next stall which has miniature cars on its table. I grab a couple of brochures, and an expo-only discount voucher.
“You’re taking your bridesmaid’s duties very seriously,” Keats tells me as I file the hire car info away into a display folder. “Remember, we’re trying to stop the wedding.”
A florist near us looks alarmed, while at least five other attendees to the event stop in their tracks and turn their attention to Keats. He huffs and pulls me by the wrist towards a photo booth. We sit side by side on the bench in front of the camera, my big arse making it a tight squeeze for both of us. With the little half-curtain closed, I’m suddenly very aware of the small space we’re in.
Keats turns his head because there’s not enough room to angle himself towards me. As it is, one side of our bodies is already touching from our shoulders to our ankles. I sit tense, my nerve endings revelling in Keats’ warm, hard body against me.
“Damn. Those women looked ready to murder me.” He runs his fingers through his hair, but with the style so short, only half his fingertips dig through his shorn locks. “What I was saying out there is, there’s no need to put too much effort into the wedding. It’ll just be for nothing anyway.”
“You know something I don’t?” I say as the booth’s camera clicks.
“I’ve had more time to think this through—it was a long flight to New York and back.” He grins at me, wide and cheeky as the camera clicks again.
“Our first gown here is the latest from MikiMee,” I suddenly hear someone with a perky voice announce via a microphone.
“Oh, shit! The fashion show’s starting!” I shoot up, almost hitting my head against the booth’s ceiling. I want to see the dress styles on real people—and by real, I mean in 3D. I wonder what bunch of anorexics they’ll have on show for us today?
I step out of the cramped photo booth, pulling Keats along by the wrist.
“Don’t forget your photos!”
I look back over my shoulder and the stall owner is there with a strip of photo booth shots and a brochure of his business.
“Thanks.” I grab the promotional material off him, and tuck both away in my folder. “Come on, Keats. Hustle!”
Other attendees converge towards the stage at the other end of the gigantic hall. By the time we get there, it’s standing room only. Luckily, we’re both tall and most of the women are in flat shoes, probably expecting a day of walking around the expo.
“This dress, also by MikiMee, combines traditional lace with the silhouette of the bride of today,” the emcee announces as a new model and gown make their way to the front of the catwalk.
It’s gorgeous. Fitted to every curve of the stunning redhead, the frock has delicate chiffon straps that barely graze her shoulders, and a mermaid skirt that flicks invitingly. It skims the floor with every step while dainty feet for such a tall woman peek out in strappy satin bridal shoes.
I take a photo with my phone. The outfit might suit Isabella if she can keep her weight down. There’s no way I could pull off the mermaid look—I’d end up looking like an albino goldfish.
The model reaches the end of the catwalk, smile radiant like a real bride. She stays in character, posing coyly with her posy of white roses while she angles her head to look through the white mesh attached to her pillbox hat.
“That’s a nice dress,” I say to Keats who is standing behind my right shoulder.
I lift my phone up again, wanting to take another photo. The model notices the gesture, starts to smile at me, but then the expression freezes on her face like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes tear up immediately and she practically runs back up the catwalk.
“Um, our next dress…” the emcee continues, trying to cover up the unexpected turn of events.
“What was that abou—?” I stop when I see Keats run his palm over his face.
“Time to go, Hay-gen,” he says, turning on his heel without waiting for me to reply.
When we reach an open area beyond the fashion show section, Keats doesn’t stop.
“Hey, wait,” I call after him. “We’re not finished here yet. We still have a million things to check out.”
“I have to go, but you can. stay. You’re a big girl, you don’t need me,” he says over his shoulder without bothering to look my way.
I don’t know what annoys me more: the
