Page 1 of I Could Be Yours (The Toronto Terror #6)

ESSIE

I snap several pictures, but the mirror doesn’t allow me to fully capture the miles of poofy satin, tulle, and lace that make up this wildly ostentatious dress.

My best friend, Rix, the bride-to-be, should be here any minute, and I want to give her a reason to smile.

She’s been stressing over every wedding detail lately.

Tonight, we’re having dinner to tick all the boxes on the upcoming bridal shower and the stag and doe.

Rix is determined everything go smoothly, which is why I’m here ahead of her, checking on the dresses.

I take my role of maid of honor seriously—most of the time anyway—but when I saw this dress, I couldn’t resist trying it on.

The chime of the door signals her arrival. “Trixie Rixie, I have something amazing to show you!” I singsong as I grab a suit jacket from the rack. Me and my makeshift groom twirl into the viewing area, belting out the lyrics to our favorite slow-dance song from high school.

Except my best friend is not standing in the middle of the store. It’s her soon-to-be brother-in-law, Nate Stiles. Looking wildly uncomfortable. And ungodly gorgeous. And also horrified and unimpressed. How someone can wear so many feelings at the same time is an absolute wonder .

His delightfully dark brows pull together, chocolate eyes narrowing, full lips pulling down. “What in the actual fuck?”

“What are you doing here?” I attempt to backtrack, but this dress has more yards of material than freaking Fabricland.

I step on the train and topple backwards, landing on the floor with an oof.

My makeshift suit-jacket groom goes flying.

The hoop skirt flips up, and I raise my arm just in time to prevent it from smacking me in the face.

I feel like a flipped-over beetle as I struggle to right myself.

Uma, the sales associate who has been our go-to for all wedding-dress-related issues, rushes over. “Oh my goodness! Are you okay?”

Nate’s stupidly pretty, displeased face appears above me, and he extends a hand. “That’s a loaded question.”

I ignore his offer of assistance and try, again, to right myself, but the freaking hoop is a menace. Nate’s face is a telling shade of red. I am ten thousand percent sure my underwear is showing, and probably ninety percent of my ass since it’s a thong. My mortification doubles.

Nate disappears, and two strong hands slide under my arms. A moment later I’m on my feet.

I fight the goose bumps that skitter across my skin.

The hoop skirt somehow flips up again, but this time I’m not fast enough to keep it from hitting me in the face.

I jerk my head back and connect with his chin.

Nate grunts and releases me. I wobble perilously before settling, still on my feet thankfully.

“Are you okay?” Uma asks again.

“I’m fine. Just peachy. Thanks so much. I’m very sorry.” I can’t die of embarrassment today, not when Rix is counting on me.

I spin, and the excessively poofy skirt flares, returning to the appropriate location.

I bet it looks so cool. But I can’t confirm this because Nate is glaring at me, his thick, defined forearms crossed over his equally thick, defined chest. The Stileses have excellent genes.

All three brothers are ridiculously good looking.

But Nate has that tall-dark blond-and-grumpy thing going, and I’m such a fan.

I shouldn’t be, based on our history, but I tend to be attracted to the wrong men—including the one standing in front of me, looking displeased.

My face is on fire as I try to give him a wide berth, but the expansive skirt makes it impossible.

“Is this Rix’s dress?” His gaze moves over me, expression reflecting judgment, skepticism, and several other feelings I’m too busy being mortified and offended by to identify.

“Of course not! I was just…” Good Lord, what was I doing? Anyway, Rix is getting married on a beach. She would sweat to death in this number. Besides, she’s about simplicity. “Why are you even here?”

“Rix had some kind of emergency, so I’ve been sent to collect you.”

They might as well have asked him to clean up roadkill, based on how unhappy he looks.

“Is everything okay? Why didn’t she call me?”

“Probably because you’re here managing shit already, and I was available.” He consults his wristwatch. “You need to change out of that. It’s a twenty-minute drive, and we’re already cutting it close.”

“Yes, sir!” I salute him and click my heels together, then cross to the fitting room and attempt to get the hoop skirt through the door without flashing anyone, again.

Once inside, I realize the zipper is stuck. Which means I need help.

I poke my head out. Nate’s back is to me, phone in hand, forearms flexing as he thumb-types. Probably telling Tristan, his older brother and Rix’s fiancé, that we’ll be late thanks to me. I search for Uma, but she’s helping another customer.

Nate turns as if sensing my presence, his exasperation clear. “Why are you still wearing that? Hoping your fairy godmother shows up so you can be next in the ball-and-chain parade? ”

It’s no secret that Nate is anti-marriage. Hell, he’s anti-relationship. According to Rix, he hasn’t so much as gone on a date since his girlfriend Lisa broke up with him a year and a half ago. After cheating. I ignore the dig at my very different views on love. “The zipper is stuck.”

“Well, unstuck it.”

“Like I haven’t tried.” I roll my eyes. “I have many talents, but rotating my head and dislocating my arms are not among them.”

His look of disapproval deepens.

“Why are you always such a grumpy old man?”

“Why are you always trying to be a fairy tale princess?”

“Why are you such a storm cloud?”

I try to pass him so I can ask Uma for help, but he steps in front of me and crosses his arms. “Because I enjoy raining on your parade, obviously.”

“Obviously.” I really wish I couldn’t and didn’t appreciate how nice his forearms are.

He unfolds them and points to the fitting room. “In.”

“I need help!”

“Oh, I know.”

I flip up a middle finger and blow him a kiss with it. His eyes drop to my mouth and darken.

I hope like hell he’s remembering how my lips feel.

It’s been six years. I should not have any feelings about that one stupid kiss.

But even now, when I’m faced with his surly, black-cloud-of-doom attitude—which is the version of Nate I’m always graced with—my entire body remembers that kiss in technicolor detail.

Every perfect, toe-curling moment of it.

It was the best kiss of my life. Still is. Which is endlessly frustrating.

The elusive, brilliant, untouchable Nathan Stiles had been interested in me .

I’d been so flattered, so enamored—which admittedly was not uncommon for me.

But Nate ruined it by being a giant dick after the fact.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t a unique experience for me, either, especially during my serial- dater high school days.

But it sucked to have him join the ranks of the hot guys who’d just wanted to taste the forbidden fruit.

We’ve never addressed the aftermath. I assumed the best kiss of my life was entirely forgettable for him, that he never messaged because I wasn’t on his radar. Nate has made it clear that he’s about as partial to me as a case of food poisoning.

Not that it matters. I’m not interested in him anyway.

He might be hot, and wildly intelligent, and delightfully broody, but he’s a jerk.

Besides, he’s off-limits. He’s my best friend’s fiancé’s brother.

The best man to my maid of honor. Also, and most importantly, I’ve sworn off men for the foreseeable future.

Especially men who are bad for me. I’ve had my heart broken too many times by guys who didn’t deserve it in the first place.

I head for the fitting room because this stare down with Nate is making me sweaty.

I pull the hoop up so I can get through the door. Again. I turn to pull it closed, but Nate is on my heels. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you so we’re not half an hour late for dinner. Unless you’d like to go dressed like this.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic.

He pulls the door closed and makes a turnaround motion.

I do as he wordlessly instructs, because facing him means I have to continue to look at his irritated, pretty face.

Turning around isn’t much better. In front of me is a three-sided mirror meant to provide a multi-angled view of the dress I’m wearing.

It also means I’m looking at three versions of Nate.

He has on black dress pants, a black button-down, a blue tie, and, in a bold move, shoes to match. He’s taller than me by at least a head. And broad. He takes up way more space than he has any right to. Even worse, he smells phenomenal.

I pull my hair over my shoulder to expose the zipper and tip my head forward to make it easier. The sooner he unzips me, the sooner I’ll be alone in this space, and the easier it will be to breathe again .

I grit my teeth and steel myself as his warm fingers skim between my shoulders.

“The lace is caught in the zipper,” he explains.

“Don’t tear it. I can’t afford to pay for this dress.”

“Why were you trying it on in the first place?” He tugs but the zipper doesn’t budge.

“I wanted to make Rix laugh,” I grumble.

“You in this dress is a horror show, not a comedy reel.” His fingers slide into the back of the dress, knuckles pressing against my spine.

“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically.

“It’s too much. It overwhelms you.” He continues to work the lace free from the teeth.

This time the zipper comes down, but I’m not prepared. Too busy processing his last comment, perhaps? I grab for the bodice a moment too late. It slides down my torso, stopping at my hips.

I’m not wearing a bra. Nate freezes. My eyes lift as his drop. His nostrils flare. His fists clench.

His hot gaze flashes back to mine. “I’ll be in the car.”

He spins around and leaves me in the fitting room with perky pierced nipples and a whole lot of embarrassment.

I sigh. “Dinner should be fun.”