Emi Harrison hasn’t been feeling particularly lucky lately.
Ever since her ex-fiancée, Jack Cabot, successfully shattered her heart into a million pieces. She’s managed to avoid him for a whole year, but all that’s about to change at her brother Evan’s wedding…
She will have to face Jack, Jack’s sister, Jack’s parents, and Jack’s new girlfriend: a mean girl that just won’t quit. What could possibly go wrong?
With her lucky dress on, all bets are off, and maybe Emi will find her happily-ever-after at last?
Perfect for fans of Anna Bell, Jo Watson and Sophie Kinsella.
I glance down at the dress. It is pretty, and on anyone a size two and under it’d probably be va-va-voom gorgeous without any extra unseen help. The medieval underwear I’m referring to does appear to be helping fake that look though. My boobs look fantastic too. I’m not sure they’ve sat this high on my chest since I was in my early twenties. The rest of me… well, it pretty much fits like a glove. The latex kind. Or like one of those nude statues that have got the clothing painted on and you can hardly tell. That’ll be me, miss, the dress didn’t fit so we’ve hired a professional body painter to fake it.
The dress is made of a gray shimmery material that fits like a second skin all the way to the knees, where it then flares out and is covered in black and gray feathers that are seemingly dipped in gold glitter. I’d preferred it to be strapless but no, it’s got these droopy sequined off the shoulder straps that allow me to lift my arms just inches from my body.
I glance over at the shoes sitting peacefully on the sofa next to Lily. They’re strappy, glittery, platform, and at least ten inches high. Well, OK, maybe not ten inches, but it feels that way. The fact that I can’t take full steps in this skirt anyway will prove either helpful or hurtful with said shoes. I’m that girl who has fallen in the middle of the sidewalk wearing no heels at all, so these ones aren’t giving me much hope for grace and poise when walking down an aisle in front of everyone I know.
“I’m not sure I can walk at all with the combo of layers; cinched up underwear, a skin tight dress and stripper shoes…” I chew on my bottom lip as I stare into the tri-fold full length mirrors in front of me. I wonder if this is one of those deceptively flattering mirrors Elaine is always going on about in Seinfeld? Probably instead of me looking lovely, I look more like an overstuffed sausage.
“It doesn’t look completely terrible now,” Lily reassures me with a small grin. That’s what best friends do, they’re honest until you can’t take it and then they just find the best honest quality and talk up that angle. She was also unlucky enough to witness my panic of the dress not fitting at my apartment this morning. “The underwear does help. You just look stiff.”
“I’m a little worried that if I take a full breath something will pop, the dress will explode and the impending underwear malfunction will be the center of some viral video before the wedding is even over.” The last thing I need is an internet worthy video surfacing to prove that I was not at all ready for this week.
I force myself to look away from the mirror and watch the seamstress, who is kneeling at my feet and already working on the necessary alterations. Swiftly pinning the hem, just above the feathers, so I don’t drag it across the floor.
I’m not exactly tall, standing at only five foot three, and since Hannah didn’t think of how a dress like this fits a short girl, this poor woman has a long night of hemming ahead of her I’m afraid.
Seamstress Lady, whose name I still don’t know, isn’t all that exciting looking considering she works in a bridal shop that looks like you’ve just stepped into a giant, sparkly, tulle cloud. Her gray hair is piled high on her head and her dress is a plain black version of Mrs Doubtfire’s dresses, including the drabby cardigans. She’s kind of depressing looking. I can imagine the bridezilla’s she’s had to work with over the years have drilled her down into what she is today.
“I have to ask,” Lily breaks the silence. “What’s with the shiny gray material anyway?”
I’ve wondered this myself. Gray, I can see, it’s one of my favorite colors. But the muted sheen of the fabric is not helping to hide imperfections.
“Her official wedding colors are black, gray, and pink.”
“It’s so depressing, Emi. It kind of makes me sad just looking at it. I mean seriously, it’s the color of gray skies or an impending tornado and you know as well as I do that isn’t a color that brings out anything but dread.”
Aimee Brown is a writer of romantic comedies set in Portland, Oregon, and an avid reader. She spends much of her time writing, raising three teenagers, binge-watching shows on Netflix and obsessively cleaning and redecorating her house.
She’s fluent in sarcasm and has been known to utter profanities like she’s competing for a medal.
Aimee grew up in Oregon, but is now a transplant living in cold Montana with her husband of twenty years, three teenage children, and far too many pets. She is a lot older than she looks and yes, that is a tattoo across her chest.
Aimee is very active on social media. Stop by and say hello!