I have to admit.
Stassi Novikov is… fun.
The second I walked into the ladies’ parlor, she came after me like a tulle-encrusted whirlwind. I was instantly hugged, kissed on both cheeks, and sat down with a glass of champagne before I even knew what was going on.
For the first time in days, weeks, or maybe even months, I felt a glimmer of… fun.
I wasn’t about to let my stupid brother and Marco ruin that for me.
So I took full advantage of Stassi’s squeak about the tradition of not seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding.
And when I snapped the parlor doors shut, I wanted to laugh out loud at the looks on their faces.
“Wait until they’re gone and then come try one of these on with me,” Stassi said from the center of the room.
I press my ear against the door, then grin at her after a minute. “They’re gone.”
“Good,” she says with a bright smile. The dress she has on looks like it was made by spiders or something, the lace is so finely made and stretched over a tight white silk under-dress.
She stands, reaching for the bottle of champagne, and I sigh.
Stassi turns back, her perfect rose lips arched in a little catlike smile. “Here, new sister.”
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the drink.
We both sip, and I sigh. “Wow. That’s amazing.”
“I know. They send me this stuff by the case, and I just honestly never drink it. But when I do,” she sips, her perfect blue eyes closing in admiration. “It’s like… really good.”
I take another drink.
“So. Which one do you want to try?”
I look at Stassi. She’s literally a model; she’s tall, with elegantly long limbs and the type of blonde hair that turns nearly white in the summer. Her skin still carries the tan of whatever exotic location she was last in, and she has the kind of body that most of us only dream of.
“Uh,” I start. “I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think you and I wear the same size.”
She laughs. “Oh my god, girl. Don’t worry about it. They make wedding dresses too big so that you can get them tailored.”
I eye her very trim waist. “I’m not sure…”
“Just come on, already. You can totally pick one, I promise you’ll fit!”
Before I know it, Stassi’s hand is in mine, and I’m being pulled toward one of the racks of wedding dresses at an alarmingly quick pace.
I dig in my heels, preventing the champagne from spilling. “Look,” I protest, “I’m not even sure where to start—”
“Sweetheart neckline,” she says, thrusting a dress at me.
I blink. “What?”
“Sweetheart neckline. You’ve got killer bone structure on your shoulders and along your collarbones, so let’s go with this,” she smiles.
I don’t know how anyone says no to this woman.
With a sigh, I grab the dress and hand her my champagne. Behind the screen, I whip off the well-made designer jumpsuit that I was wearing, my fingers lingering on the edges of the lingerie that I still haven’t changed out of.
The lingerie that Marco…
“So. Tell me about yourself, Roisin?”
I wince.
I don’t know what to do. Stassi just seems so… open. I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t tell her the truth.
I don’t even think that I know how to answer that question. My brain sifts through the different layers of the truth as I try to figure out what I’m going for.
I’m an Interpol agent being framed for the murder of Russian mafia members. You might know them.
I’m a double agent, working for Interpol to arrest members of organized crime while also feeding my brother information that keeps our stupid family gang afloat.
I’m Marco’s handler, and held him in witness protection for almost a year.
I’m…
“Oh I know! Tell me what your color season is!”
That makes me pause.
Then, I huff a little laugh.
Of course she doesn’t want you to go that deep. She doesn’t even know you.
“I don’t know what that is,” I call as I tug the dress up. I have to admit, even though it doesn’t quite lace up in the back, it makes my tits look amazing. For a second, I study myself in the mirror.
She’s not wrong. I look… really good.
The bodice of the gown curves around me in a way that’s somehow both classy and alluring. It’s a shimmery, buttery-looking fabric. Satin, I think, but I could be wrong. Might be silk or who knows what else.
Magic. It has to be made of magic.
“Don’t be shy! Do you have it on? Let me see!” Stassi says from the center of the room.
I take a deep breath and step out from behind the screen. Stassi is waiting next to the mirror and the little pedestal is right in front of her, smack in the middle where you’d be able to see yourself from all angles.
She waves, pointing to the pedestal. “Step up!”
Hesitating, I do.
When I get up, I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror. Stassi appears behind me, and with a few quick tugs and what looks like some kind of clamp, the dress somehow glues itself to my frame.
“Oh. My. God. Roisin. You have to open your eyes,” she breathes.
Slowly, I open one.
Stassi and I both gasp at my reflection.
“Holy mother of god,” I breathe, smoothing the fabric over myself. “I look—”
“Freaking incredible!” Stassi trills.
I do.
This dress transforms all my muscles into something elegant and feminine. I look like I’ve been sculpted from marble or something.
And Stassi, a golden goddess, just beams behind me.
“Okay. Now I see why you have so many dresses,” I breathe. I’ve never really spent time trying wedding dresses on, for obvious reasons, but I can sure see why this would be fun.
I look amazing.
Stassi grins. “Totally. I want to make sure that Liam has absolutely no clue what I’m going to wear.”
“Oh, he was never going to have a single bloody idea,” I murmur, tracing the fabric over my thighs.
Stassi grins. “It’s good to make him sweat a little though.”
I catch her gaze. “Absolutely. And he bought all of these?” I wave around.
Stassi rolls her eyes. “I’m not that cruel. It’s obvious that he wants me for my money and all that I come with. That’s why Kieran kidnapped me.”
I turn, ripping my eyes away from the mirror and staring at her. “What?”
Stassi’s smile falters slightly. “You didn’t know?”
“No. Please tell me,” I say.
She tugs me to the stiff couch. With her hands flitting like birds, punctuating her statements, she starts.
By the time Stassi is done, there’s a knot of rage and sorrow in my chest that feels like it’s blocking my air supply.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down enough to get around it. “Lord have mercy, Stassi,” I breathe. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
Her demeanor, which has been fairly sunny until now, droops slightly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
There, of course, is the problem.
“It might not be my fault, but I still wish it hadn’t happened to you,” I mutter. And I’m still related to the motherfucker who did it.
It’s never my fault.
But I’m still responsible.
Stassi’s face hardens. For a second, the bubbly California girl disappears, and I see a glint of something much, much more serious in her eyes.
“It’s not your fault,” she repeats, this time with steel coming through her voice. “I need you to know that.”
“I know.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re doing the exact same thing that I do, in situations like this. But you aren’t responsible for the things your brother, or brothers, do.”
My eyes flick to hers. “Brothers?”
I swear to God, if Liam…
“Well. I guess I opted in to one brother. I just didn’t choose the other one,” she says with a smile that’s way too sad.
“Stassi…”
She waves a hand, cutting off my weak attempt at reassurance. “I’m a Novikov, Roisin. I understand what it means to live in a world where my family, and the sins of my relatives, are my own. That’s why I need you to know. It’s not your fault,” she says.
There’s so much conviction in her voice. I want to protest, but as she stares at me in the mirror, I recognize that she’s not just telling me it’s not my fault.
She’s telling herself that as well.
I take a deep breath, meeting her gaze. I crack a smile and give her a wink.
“I think you should probably call me Ro, since you’re going to be my sister in less than thirty days.”
The smile that blooms across Stassi’s face isn’t manufactured in the slightest. It’s genuine, beautiful, and it warms me to my core.
“I always wanted a sister,” she says with a smile.
I nod.
Because. While I never particularly wanted a sister, I’m sure glad to have one now.
There are a great deal of dresses.
And a lot of champagne.
And, by the time that we’ve gone through the whole room, I am well and truly drunk.
Stassi, normal, bubbly Stassi, is back. She’s hilarious, and I collapse back at her latest joke, melting into the puddle of lace and stiff tulle that comprises the princess-style dress I have on.
“Stop,” I breathe, struggling to keep my champagne glass upright as I fight my way out of the fabric puddling around me. “There’s no way that you were there the night that Megan met Harry.”
She winks, her cheeks flush with champagne. “Who do you think told her to go for it?”
“The news always reported they met through friends,” I giggle.
Stassi smiles. “Am I not a friend?”
I have no doubt that Stassi is the best friend in the world.
“Far be it from me to interject,” I hear my brother’s voice ring into the room.
Stassi giggles. “He won’t come in. He’s terrified.”
“What, Liam?” I yell.
“Perhaps you’d like to eat something?” Liam says.
I roll my eyes, looking at Stassi. “Should I tell him to fuck off?” I whisper.
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, we’ve probably made them suffer for long enough, right?”
My stomach grumbles, and I sigh. “I could eat.”
“Coming, darling,” Stassi trills.
I prop myself up so that I can see the doorway. Liam’s face peers in, and sure enough, he toes the threshold but refuses to cross it.
Big baby.
Stassi sails out, dressed in only her silky robe. I watch her go, then sigh.
I should probably try to get up.
The dress, however, is a problem. There’s just so much of it. And, I need to manage to get up without spilling any of that champagne that’s making my head spin. I eye the floor, then my hand, then make one attempt.
Shit.
Attempt number two is almost successful. I’m partly standing when I almost lose my balance again. The vision of the champagne flying through the air and staining the perfectly pristine white dress enters my mind, and I squeak as I wait…
Then, strong hands cross my middle.
“Need a hand?” Marco says, his voice thick.
I blink.
Marco is behind me, slowly propping me up. I let him, feeling his hands at my waist like a burning brand.
By the time I’m standing, my face feels hot, and I bring myself to look in the mirror in front of us.
“This is… a lot,” Marco rumbles.
My gaze snaps to his. “I’m allowed to wear dresses,” I blurt.
Marco’s eyes pull away from mine in the mirror. The heat that’s blistering my cheeks spreads as his eyes slip down, over my neck and shoulders. This dress is a true princess-style dress, with a fitted strapless bodice and a skirt that puffs out for miles in any direction.
His eyes snag on the corset top, which is shoving my breasts up into actual cleavage.
“This part I like,” he murmurs.
I’m too stunned to speak.
His hand tugs at the voluminous skirt. “This part is a lot.”
“I can wear whatever I want,” I protest.
Weakly.
Marco’s eyes lock with mine again. “You can.”
“If I want to get married,” I whisper.
His eyes go dark. “Do you?”
I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ve ever given it too much thought, until now.
But the thought of Marco, standing there at the end of a long aisle, suddenly flashes into my mind.
“I might,” I say, my voice hoarse.
His nostrils flare, and I can see the muscle in his jaw flex. The silence between us gets tense, like a bow string as it’s pulled back to the tightest point.
Marco gives me one last, lingering look. “This isn’t the one,” he mutters.
With that, he spins, leaving the room.
I’m stunned.
Because he left right as another question popped into my mind.
Was he talking about the dress?
Or me?
