I was curled into myself on the couch when the doorbell rang. I got up to answer, Daisy at my heel, barking excitedly, as she did when Chase came over. We hadn’t discussed him dropping by, but the hollowness I’d felt at not being with him today, for the first time in weeks, terrified me. I flung the door open. The hallway was empty. I wondered how whoever had gotten in had done it in the first place. The front buzzer hadn’t rung. I just guessed it was Layla. I surveyed the empty hall, frowning.
“Layla? Chase?” My voice bounced on the walls. Daisy whimpered, lowering her head and bumping her nose against something on my doorstep. I looked down. Was that . . . a sewing machine? It looked old school. Heavy. The expensive kind. A vintage Singer in black and gold. I crouched down, picked it up, and carried it into my apartment. There was a note plastered onto it. No sewing machine case. I plucked it off.
Maddie,
When I was a wee lad in Dundee, my mother was the neighborhood’s seamstress. I witnessed firsthand how clothes transform people. Not just visually. But their mood and ability and ambition. When I moved to the States, I decided to incorporate Black & Co., basing my entire business plan on something I’d learned from a poor widow who couldn’t afford to put milk on the table. From my mother.
This is what Gillian Black taught me—if you love what you do, it will never be work for you.
To making many more dresses, and hopefully happy memories with my son.
—Ronan Black
I blinked, desperately trying to get rid of the tears so I could reread the letter again and again. Ronan had left something for me. I didn’t know why it hit me so deeply. Maybe because the circumstances reminded me of my mom, and all she could afford to leave behind were letters. It took me another twenty minutes and two cups of water to calm down. I picked up my phone and texted Chase. I knew a normal person would call, but texting was our safety net. We were still treading carefully, trying not to reveal too much of our hearts. Texts could be deleted. Words spoken would be inked in our memories forever.
Maddie: Thank you for the sewing machine. How was it today?
Chase: Surprisingly not horrible. I think Julian and I are salvageable.
Maddie: I’m so happy to hear that.
Chase: *Read that.
Maddie: Still a jerk, I see.
Chase: Good thing you dumped me, huh?
Maddie: That’s not exactly what happened.
I still hadn’t told him I’d found the azaleas. It seemed like poor timing to talk about us when there was something so big going on in his life. Then again, I felt stuck in a limbo of feelings I couldn’t untangle from one another. The worst part was that there was nothing to talk about, really. I was in love with Chase Black, and he’d friend zoned me because I’d insisted on it. Because even though he had passed the azaleas test and almost fired someone for me and taken care of me in more ways than I could count—than anyone ever had, if I was being honest—I chose to believe the stupid, cowardly thing he said to me over and over again. That he wasn’t ready to fall in love.
Only he hasn’t told you this in weeks.
Chase: Dinner tomorrow?
Maddie: Sure. Burnt chili sound good?
Chase: My favorite.
It was the day of the runway show during Fashion Week, and my nerves were tattered and torn on the floor as I paced from side to side.
“I told you!” I growled at Sven, shaking my finger in his direction. “I told you we couldn’t count on her. What kind of model doesn’t show up to Fashion Week? What agency did she say she was from?”
The model was a no-show. I repeat: We had no one to walk the runway with the Dream Wedding Dress, which I had designed. Which I’d put my heart and soul into.
“I mean, she did get pneumonia. I know you’re no longer Martyr Maddie, but a bit of sympathy would be nice.” Sven winced.
I fell down into a chair, burying my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening. It was a dream come true.”
Sven, Nina, and Layla, who’d taken a day off and tagged along for moral support, all looked at me with a mixture of horrified fascination and pity.
“You know,” Layla started, “you could always model the dress yourself.”
My head jerked up, and I twisted my face at her, aghast. “What?”
“It is your measurements,” Nina said quietly, folding her arms over her chest with half a shrug.
“And . . . I mean, we do have the dress. All we need is a model,” Sven finished, rubbing his chin.
“I can’t model my own dress.” I shook my head violently. “I can’t.”
“Technically, you can,” said Layla.
“Logically, you can too,” Sven pointed out.
I looked between the three of them, knowing my eyes were red rimmed. My hands shook. I hated the limelight. Hated to be the center of attention. But I also acknowledged that there was no other way. Any other model in this venue would swim in this dress. It was way too big for a regular-size model.
“God.” I closed my eyes. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”
“Seems like it.” Layla took my hands, tugging me up to my feet. “It’s showtime, girl.”
Half an hour later, I was throwing up into a bucket backstage, wrapped in the wedding dress I’d designed all by myself. Sven had quickly hemmed up the length, and it was a surprisingly easy fix. The ball gown had long sleeves made out of crème lace, a deep V neckline, and a three-foot train. The satin nude trims, soft lines, and bare back made it uniquely memorable, or so Layla kept telling me.
It would help if I knew where Sven, my boss, was right at that second, when I needed his support the most, puking the reduced-fat turkey-bacon sandwich I’d had for breakfast into a bucket that had been the home of iced champagnes until a moment ago.
“Just please let me go to the bathroom. The nausea is only getting worse,” I moaned into the bucket, heaving. Layla patted my back while Nina held the bucket up for me.
“No way,” I heard Nina say, tsking in revulsion. “The dress could get dirty in the bathroom, and Sven would kill both of us. I’m not taking any chances.”
“C’mon, the bathroom is occupied by models only. The only dirty thing about it is traces of cocaine, and they’re already white like the dress.” Layla tried to persuade Nina to budge from her stand, but the latter shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let that happen. I’m actually trying to keep my job for a change.”
I whipped my head up from the bucket and looked around. The backstage of the fashion show was buzzing with event coordinators, models, and stylists. All the other models seemed to be twice my height and so skinny I could make out their individual ribs when they were topless. Which was the case with nearly half of them. They walked around on high heels and skin-toned thongs, chatting among themselves.
“Where is Sven?” I whined just as one of the assistants walked briskly toward us, talking into her Madonna mic as she gave me a wink.
“Ten minutes and you’re up. We’re wrapping up Valentino right now.”
Layla dragged a folding chair behind my butt, and I collapsed onto it, squeezing my eyes shut. I wasn’t exactly a wallflower, but showing myself off was never something I’d wanted. Still, my nerves weren’t solely about the show. Chase had been acting weird the past few days. And by weird I meant nice. He was oh so very nice. Attentive, sweet, caring . . . not himself. I worried he was going through a mental breakdown or something.
Which I found . . . horrible. I couldn’t help but think something was seriously wrong, but when I’d confronted him about it, he’d played dumb. I liked it when we fought and teased and taunted each other. This new, sweet version of him disconcerted me.
“Coming through. Coming through. Make way. God, what is this, American Horror Story? Just kidding, Ms. Westwood. Love your stuff. And mucho respect. The Sex Pistols was my favorite band in high school. Admittedly because it made me look cooler—the music is so not my cuppa—but still. Have you seen my designer? Maddie? Maddie Goldbloom? Short, pixie hair, a look of pure horror on her face . . . oh, never mind. There she is.” Sven giggled, waltzing past designers and assistants and models, a cup of coffee glued to his hand. He gripped me by the shoulder and yanked me up from the chair.
I wanted to throw up all over again as he righted me.
“Wow. Seriously, Maddie, the dress is not half as bad as I thought it would be. I’m going as far as calling it cute.”
I eyed him skeptically—miserably—and nodded. “Hmm, thanks?”
“I need to talk to you.” He pulled me away from the backstage area and into the hallway. A narrow white thing full of side doors leading to different rooms.
I was thinking of pointing out that I had a runway to walk in less than ten minutes, but really, no tears would be shed if I were to miss what ought to turn into an embarrassing farce.
I stumbled over my feet as Sven pulled me a little too forcefully down the hallway. Not only was I inherently clumsy, but because of my lackluster height (“Fun size sounds better,” Layla had said, attempting to console me), I had to wear six-inch heels, which made walking impossible, let alone running.
“So congratulations—your Wedding Dress to End All Wedding Dresses has been officially purchased,” Sven said airily.
“Purchased?” I panted, trying to keep up. “You mean by Black & Co.? They always pick up our collection. I thought we had a three-year deal with them.”
“No, not with Black & Co. It’s a private buyer.”
“How could a private buyer purchase it? It’s not for sale yet. And even if it was, no one has seen it. That’s why we’re here. To show it for the first time.”
“Yes, well, the buyer is confident they’ll like the dress.”
“What about our commitment to Black & Co.?”
“We found a loophole in the contract. The money was too good to turn down.”
“But—” I started.
“The dress is sold. This is not the issue.” He cut me off, his movements a breeze. We were getting farther away from backstage and into some sort of an office floor.
“What is the issue?” I tried to regulate my breaths. Oh, snap. What if it had been purchased by a celebrity? What if the celebrity didn’t want anyone else to see it so they could have first dibs and show it off? What if the whole runway thing was canceled and I could just go about my day and watch the show from the sidelines? I could already imagine myself seeing the dress draped on Dua Lipa on the cover of OK! magazine—was she dating anyone these days?—and getting giddy. Pride made my chest swell.
“The buyer has an unusual request.” Sven finally stopped. We were far enough from backstage not to be seen, standing in front of a white wooden door.
I tucked flyaway locks of hair behind my ear. Sven swatted my hands away. “You did not sit for forty-five minutes to get your hair curled just so you could ruin it a second before the show.”
So I am doing the show? What happened to my Dua Lipa dream?
“What’s the request?” I huffed, tired of being kept in the dark.
“Well”—Sven looked around, a little queasy—“you’ll have to ask the groom.”
“The groom?”
Sven pushed the door in front of us open, and I tripped forward on my heels from the shock. A pair of big, confident hands caught me at the last minute.
Chase.
Chase was holding me.
Not only was he holding me, but he was staring into my eyes, his twinkling blue-grays full of mischief and heartbreaking warmth I had never seen in them before.
“Hi,” he whispered.
I pushed myself up on both feet, aware that I probably had puke breath, and looked around me. Everybody was here. Well, everybody I knew from New York, anyway. Lori, Katie, Julian, Clementine, Sven, Ethan (Ethan?), Grant, Francisco, and all the colleagues I was close with. Nina and Layla slipped in just as I took count of the people in the room. Apparently, they’d been behind Sven and me the entire time.
I looked between Chase and Sven, trying to will my heart to keep from hammering its way out of my chest. Jumping to conclusions could crush me. Plus, I’d known Chase for not much more than a year. Granted, it had been one of the most intense years of my life.
“You have a request for me?” My mouth defied my brain as I uttered the words, internally begging him to be the groom. Or . . . not to be the groom. What if he was marrying someone else? Finally going ahead with his plan to please his family, but with some other girl? Was that why he’d been so nice and weird with me this week?
God, what if it was Ethan that was Katie’s groom, and I’d just jumped the gun? My head was spinning. I needed to sit down. Chase offered me a curt nod. I needed more. I needed words.
“Please say something,” I said, my mouth cotton dry. “Anything. I’m freaking the hell out.”
Chase scratched his eyebrow. Such a mundane thing to do, but I’d never seen him do that before. Look unsure or contemplative.
“You’ve been planning your wedding since the day you were born. I know because I asked your father. I asked your father because I drove to Pennsylvania last week to meet him. I met him because I’ve been trying to figure you out. I think I did.”
“You did?” I blinked.
“You’re the type to go for public love declarations. You want the big, messy, multicolored fairy tale. I’m not sure if it can get any more public than what I’m about to do here.”
Sven clapped his hands excitedly from the corner of the room, jumping up and down. “He is channeling his inner Hugh Grant. I’m so here for this.”
Chase shot him a look, then turned back to me.
“I was just wondering if . . .” His eyes ran down my cleavage in the dress, and a smirk twisted his lips. Like he’d found his footing. I needed him to do that. Find his footing. Talk.
“If?” I tried to keep my voice neutral.
“If I could be the lucky bastard to destroy this masterpiece with my teeth while half-drunk and fully in love with you on your wedding night.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
“Oh,” he repeated, his smirk widening. “I’m also wondering if I could be the man to hold your hair when you puke and not be the reason you got stupid drunk in the first place.”
My breath stuttered in my chest. It reminded me I had terrible breath. As if reading my mind, Layla slid two pieces of gum into my hand, then took a step back. I shoved them between my lips. Minty. Chase continued.
“I’m wondering if we could get engagement photos together, somewhere that doesn’t smell like the eighties, maybe, without having to worry you are about to leave there and go on a date with some bastard in a funny tie and a pair of tights—no offense, Ethan.” He turned and winked at my ex-whatever-he’d-been-at-the-time.
“None taken, I guess.” Ethan shrugged from beside Katie, holding her hand. I laughed through my tears. That was the best, worst marriage proposal I’d ever heard, and Chase wasn’t even done yet.
“Wanna know what else I’m wondering?” He cocked a brow.
“Dying to.” I laughed through my tears.
“I’m wondering if you could look at me the way you did the first time we met. Like I was a real possibility. With raw potential to be something you wanted for yourself. I want to be your every fucking thing, until we bring a replica of both of us into this world and become slaves to them, because you’re into having kids and shit.”
I cackled. And cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I drank him in, hopeful and boyish and dashing, with his imperial height, tar-black mane, and sparkling eyes that were never exactly the same color and always kept me on my toes. He took my hand. He was trembling, and for some reason, it undid me.
“In short, I’m wondering if, since you have your wedding dress stitched to your own measurements and some flowers I kept alive for you—by the way, they were a real bitch to keep alive—you would maybe want to marry me. Because, Madison”—his eyes twinkled with mischief and excitement and a promise to make my future brighter—“I called you Mad because I was mad about you and didn’t even realize it until you walked away. After you did, I kept thinking of ways and reasons to contact you. For months, I convinced myself it was nothing more than an itch I wanted to scratch, and when Dad got sick, it gave me a bullshit excuse to hunt you down, and all bets were off. I fucking love you, Goldbloom. You soften me,” he said gruffly, looking down at our entwined fingers. “But, you know, not everywhere.”
The room burst into laughter. The adrenaline was running so wild in my bloodstream I was shaking all over. The laughter felt like honey in my throat. So that was why he’d been weird recently.
The assistant with the Madonna mic burst into the room, waving her iPad in her hand hysterically. “There you are! You’re up next. Chop-chop!”
Everyone’s eyes turned to her. Layla began to push the door, closing it in her face. “I will chop-chop your body if you don’t go away. I am witnessing the most romantic thing in the world short of The Bodyguard with Whitney Houston, and you will not ruin it for me,” she said, sulking and glancing in our direction. “And for them, too, I suppose.”
“So what do you say?” Chase peered into my face urgently. He reached for his back pocket to produce a ring. I put my hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Actually . . .” I bit my lower lip, looking sideways at Layla, who widened her eyes, signaling me to say yes. “I never sold your ring. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew it wasn’t real—our engagement, I mean—but to me, it felt real. A lot of the time, in fact. So I . . . just kept it.”
“You kept the ring?” he asked, dumbfounded. I nodded. It was embarrassing. But maybe not as embarrassing as proposing to someone in a room full of people you knew when you weren’t even officially together.
“And all those times you deleted your text messages . . .” I trailed off.
“I told you I love you,” he finished. “And all the times you did it?” He cocked his head sideways.
I laughed, wiping more tears away. The hell with the fashion show. “Same.”
The assistant knocked again, sticking her head in. “Croquis should have started eight minutes ago. Just letting you know. Someone’s about to get fired soon.”
“Yeah,” Chase boomed. “And it’ll be your ass, because I own Black & Co., the official sponsor of this event. Now leave!”
There he was. The man I’d fallen in love with, against all odds. And reason. And . . . no point in denying it—logic. We needed to wrap it up, I knew, even though I didn’t want this moment to end.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re giving in to my terms,” I said softly. “We could wait if you want.”
“Give in to your terms?” He frowned, looking positively aghast. “I’m not doing this to please you, Madison. I’m doing this to please us. You bring me joy. Showering you with gifts and love and orgasms makes me happier.”
I heard Ethan groan, Layla squeak, and Sven sigh dreamily. I bit down on my lower lip to suppress a giggle.
“Then yes,” I said. “Yes, I will marry you, Chase Black.”
I was going to throw my arms over his shoulders, the way I’d always imagined I’d do. Like in the movies. But he picked me up honeymoon-style and kicked the door open. The assistant almost flew backward from the impact. He ran the length of the hallway while I giggled, burying my face in his chest, inhaling his singular scent. Minutes later, he burst onto the runway with me in his arms, my legs kicking playfully in my ball gown. Croquis’s sign was behind us, glowing in neon lights.
Projectors pointed at us. Rows upon rows of stern-looking fashion journalists, celebrities, media personalities, and other designers eyeing us. Cameras clicked. People whistled, laughed, and clapped.
And Chase? He grinned at everyone, at everything, with that devil-may-care smile that could melt me into a puddle.
“My name is Chase Black, and I’m the CEO of Black & Co. Want to see my favorite bridal creation for this season?” he asked, putting me down gently. The dress swelled at the bottom, and I felt everyone’s eyes scorching a path down my body as people took in the dress. “She’s it.”
