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They’ll find me in a day or two and the coroner will have to list ‘wedding dress’ as my cause of death.
Is that better than ‘Holden’ himself?
Ugh, won’t that be lovely?
As I make my slow, painful way to the front door, I spot tall white boxes through the windows that give me a glimpse of the gardens behind the cabin.
I can feel my eyes light up.
Boxes for bees?
I stop and stare for a solid minute, grateful there’s no one around to wonder about the weirdo chick in the wedding dress getting her eyes stuck to the ether.
But bees.
Here, of all freaking places, there arebees.
For the first time today, I crack a smile. Not a small one either, but one of those messy heartfelt crazy grins that makes my lungs hitch with joy.
So, yeah. Tomorrow I’lldefinitelycheck out the garden, first thing. Or maybe if there’s still enough sunlight when I extract myself from the evil dress, I’ll—
My heel snaps and my ankle twists sideways.
My smile breaks like falling glass.
I practically face-plant on the path.
Holy hell, today issonot my day.
In fact, the bees are the only thing stopping today from becoming the worst day in history—and yes, that’s a big fat exaggeration and Mom would tell me I’m being dramatic, but bite me.
Today has sucked baboon ass.
I can be a little dramatic. I deserve it.
So I climb the wooden steps, swearing my way to the front door and punching in the code on the little concealed number panel, praying it’ll work.
Ineedthis to work.
If it doesn’t, I’m probably just going to curl up on the porch in a lump of misery.
Then the door clicks and flashes a green light.
There’s a brief second where I can’t believe my luck before I’m scampering inside and flicking on the lights.
It’s spacious and cute with a large open-plan kitchen. The interior matches the outside, shiny and fancy and new.
But I’m not here for the luxury gas stove or the pretty stone marble island or the leather sofas that could eat me alive.
I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Scissors. Or a knife.
Though, given my track record with sharp objects and a sense of my own mortality, scissors are a far better option today.
I don’t want to slice open an artery and turn myself into a crime scene. I just want to get thisdamn dress off.
Four drawers later and a lot of banging around, I find exactly what I need. Meat scissors.