“What the hell is going on in here?” he asks as Callum slips past him, grabs that black bag of his, and slips right back out. He winks at me before he goes, and I frown, wondering where the hell he’s off to.

“Oscar thinks it’s his business whether or not I got the pills and whether or not I take them.” I lift my chin up, expecting resistance, but Vic just sighs and gives Oscar a look.

“Leave her alone,” he says, and although the words sound tired, the order is there. It’s not a fucking request. Oscar grits his teeth and stands up, reaching up to push ebon black hair from his forehead.

“It’s not often we have two days off during the week. I say we take advantage of it.” Oscar looks at me like he wishes I’d keel over and die. Hael just whistles under his breath and slips past me, heading for the kitchen to grab a beer. “Let’s go get the wedding dress.”

“The wedding dress?” I ask, feeling my stomach dip. “I …” I have no good excuse to get out of this. This is what I signed up for, isn’t it?

“Do it,” Vic says, closing the sliding door and locking it. “Let me get changed first.”

“You can’t pick out the dress with me,” I scoff, feeling my palms get sweaty. “It’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” Vic echoes, and Oscar smirks, noting his boss’ discomfort and probably enjoying it, too.

“Bernadette is right. It’s bad luck to see a bride in her wedding dress before the wedding. I’ll take her.” Oscar tucks the iPad under his arm. “Assuming she won’t try to choke me while we’re out.”

“Don’t press your luck, and I won’t have to,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest and returning Oscar’s hard stare.

“I really can’t go?” Vic asks, looking confused as fuck. He glances between Oscar and me, his gaze lingering on my lips. I wet them subconsciously, and he closes his eyes. Maybe, like me, he’s thinking about our quickie and wondering what it’d be like if we both gave in, if we took our time. “Fine, what the fuck ever. I want this wedding done right. Go.”

He opens his eyes again and looks right at me, but I can’t hold his gaze. When I do, I feel my armor start to break apart, and all these little worries and fears and wants and desires begin to creep in and tease my aching flesh.

“Let’s go,” Oscar says, giving Hael’s beer a look. “Give me your keys; I’ll drive.”

“Don’t you fucking scratch that fresh paint,” Hael warns, but he hands over the keys to his precious Camaro like it’s nothing.

I consider saying goodbye to Heather, but then I hear her faux screaming something about dragons and decide to let her be. Sometimes, you just want to be left alone inside your fantasy.

I fully expect our ‘shopping’ trip to take place in a trailer full of stolen goods, much like it did when we went to get the luncheon dress. Instead, Oscar takes me to a proper bridal shop. I end up standing on the sidewalk outside the doors, soaked in sweat and shaking with nerves.

This is a job, I tell myself, but like the sex with Vic, it doesn’t feel that way at all.

“Problem, Bernadette?” Oscar chides, standing next to me and smirking in that irritating way of his. He’s of the devil, I’m certain of it.

“No,” I snap, more for my own benefit than for his, and then I push in the front doors, a small bell tinkling happily as I move across the shiny wood floors and pause in a sea of white. Why do people get married in white again? Oh, that’s right. It’s supposed to denote virginity. I have to hold back a snort of nervous laughter.

“Don’t worry about the price of the dress,” Oscar says, leaning down and putting his lips awfully close to my ear. His breath feathers against my skin, and I shiver. He barely spoke to me on the way over here, and I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much. “Just pick something that calls to you.”

“Calls to me?” I ask as a perky sales attendant in a khaki skirt and pale pink blouse flounces her way over to me. Her smile is practically plastered on, but I can see it straining at the edges as she takes in the pair of tattooed kids in her shop, undoubtedly here to waste her time.

“Hello there,” she says, never allowing her professional façade to drop, despite the fact that she’s certain we’re not going to buy anything. “Can I help you with something?”

“We’re here to get a wedding dress for my lovely companion,” Oscar says, placing his hands on the small of my waist and making me shiver. I can feel each one of his fingertips pressing into that tantalizing bit of bare skin between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my jeans. “She’s a size eight in commercial clothing. Thirty-eight, twenty-eight, forty measurements.”

I grit my teeth and resist the urge to elbow him in the stomach. I have a feeling that if I do, we'll throw down, and I'm not ready to throw down in the middle of a bridal shop.

“Well, I'm here to help. Are we looking for an initial consult or—”

“She knows what she likes, and we need to find a dress today,” Oscar says, down to business as usual. The woman turns her attention to me and folds her hands in front of her khaki skirt, seemingly unbothered at being interrupted. I’d have punched Oscar in the balls for that.

“What sort of styles are you into, honey?”

“The most expensive ones,” I say, and Oscar lets out a low laugh as the woman tries to keep smiling through my deadpan disinterest.

“Sure, of course,” she says, blinking through her confusion. Have to give her credit though. She was born for customer service. “I'm Zoe, by the way. Just follow me.”

“Planning on re-selling the dress after the ceremony?” Oscar asks, and I shrug. No point in trying to hide it.

“Something wrong with that?” I ask, but he just makes this clucking sound under his breath and releases me, leaving these little warm spots where his fingertips pressed into my skin.

We follow after Zoe to the back corner of the store—probably to get us out of view of any other customers that might happen in—and she shows me a rack of dresses wrapped in plastic.

I notice that some of them are slightly off in color, in various shades of champagne or gold or whatnot. I mean, they're close enough to white.

“These are from a French designer,” she begins as I search for the tag on one of the dresses. Fifty-five hundred bucks?! For a dress. Holy crap. My fingers touch the tag, and something inside of me shifts. I don't really care about weddings or ceremonies or tradition, but buying a dress with the sole purpose of reselling it makes me feel like a total asshole.

“Do you have any black dresses?” I ask, lifting my gaze from the tag to Zoe's surprised face.

“A black wedding dress?” she says, like I've just suggested she cut off her own fingers and use them as lace on my gown. “I, um.” She pauses again, clearly thinking on her feet. Zoe snaps her fingers. “Okay, I have an idea. I'll set you up in a fitting room.”

“A black wedding dress?” Oscar repeats, the sea of white gowns reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. “Aren't we the little rebel?” He gives another one of those deep, low chuckles. “Ophelia will hate it.” He pauses a beat as we head toward the fitting room. “But Vic, he'll love it.”