Page 38 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Wednesday at four — Ariana

M itchell’s Fabric & Fine Tailoring occupied a suite in a strip mall, but what it lacked in glamour on the outside, it more than made up for on the inside. And it had a door that jingled like you’d just walked into a Southern debutante’s daydream.

It smelled like lavender starch and faintly of lemon. Rolls of silk and lace lined the walls like royalty. There were antique dress forms and floor-length mirrors angled to catch every inch of your ego—or insecurity—depending on the day.

“Ladies!” Mitchell practically sang as we stepped through the door, fanning himself with a white linen handkerchief. “My beautiful bride brigade has arrived. I could just faint. Somebody catch me!”

He was slight, in his early fifties, wearing skinny white jeans, a hot pink tunic top, and a belt that sparkled more than Courtney’s lip gloss. Ms. Julia Sugarbaker, his tiny Maltese, trotted at his heels in a coordinating pink neck scarf, pausing to give each of us a sniff and a silent judgment.

“Ms. Julia is in one of her moods,” Mitchell said gravely in his fake-southern accent that Meg had warned me about before we first met him. “She bit a UPS man this morning. Just the pant leg, mind you. He deserved it.”

“Hi, Mitchell,” Meg said, beaming. “We’re ready for our final fittings!”

“Mmm, final fittings. The last step before a bride loses her mind entirely,” he drawled, waving us toward the back. He pulled the bridesmaids dresses off a rack and handed them to each of us before turning to the bride. “Meg, darling, you first. Let’s see if this gown still makes me weep openly.”

Ellie caught my arm as we followed behind. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“She’s lying,” Meg whispered over her shoulder.

“You can stop treating me like an orchid,” I groaned.

“No way,” Meg replied.

I sighed and shook my head.

Mitchell’s shop was part studio, part stage set—floor-length curtains, a pedestal, mirrors, and a discreet champagne cart. He pulled Meg behind one of the curtains, but not before blowing the rest of us a kiss.

I took my dress into a smaller fitting room. Courtney and Haley, already buzzing with energy, had already put on their gowns and were flitting around the mirrors like hummingbirds.

“These dresses are seriously amazing,” Courtney gushed, running her hands down the satin of the emerald-green bridesmaids gown. “I feel like I should be starring in Bridgerton.”

She wasn’t wrong. Meg, the history professor, had chosen gown designs straight out of the English Regency. Empire waists, long skirts. Really pretty.

“I just want my boobs to look this good in real life,” Haley said, adjusting her bodice in the mirror.

“Well, that’s what tailoring is for, sugar,” Mitchell called from behind the curtain. “We make miracles happen with darts and divine intervention.”

Ten minutes later, Meg stepped out in her gown, and I swear all five of us made some kind of involuntary noise. Even Ms. Julia gave a tiny yip of approval.

“Holy crap,” Ellie whispered.

“You look like a queen who eats diamonds for breakfast,” I said, clasping my hands together.

Meg turned slowly on the pedestal, eyes misty. “Okay, now I’m crying. Dammit, Mitchell.”

“I live to emotionally wreck brides,” he said with a flourish.

Once Meg stepped down and wiped her eyes, Mitchell clapped his hands. “Next! Ellie, you’re up. You too, Courtney. Haley, you’re after that, and Ariana, darling, let’s save the best for last. You know that green does scandalous things to your coloring.”

Eventually, it was just me and Mitchell, who flounced dramatically into my dressing room as I zipped up the gown.

“Let’s see you,” he said, perching on a tufted stool and fanning himself like a southern widow in a Tennessee Williams play.

I stepped out.

“Oh, honey,” he said, hand to chest. “You’re going to cause a riot.”

“It fits, right?”

“Fits? Child, it sings. It confesses secrets. I’m questioning my sexuality all over again.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

He stood, adjusted a pleat at my waist, and then leaned in conspiratorially. “So...are you really married to Christopher Wentworth, or was that just a very convincing Instagram fever dream I had?”

My jaw almost dropped. I arched a brow. “Meg warned me you were a gossip,” I said, smoothing the satin over my hip.

Mitchell sighed. “Meg is not wrong. But I only gossip about people I adore.”

“Then consider me adored in silence,” I said lightly.

He pouted. “I suppose that means no exclusive scoop? Not even a hint? A little morsel?”

“You can say you saw me looking flawless in emerald and leave it at that.”

He studied me for a moment, head tilted. “Alright. Fine. But I must say… If I was married to that hunk, I would not let him out of my bed for a single minute, so I’m questioning the validity of the entire tale.”

I looked away, heart thudding.

“Okay,” Meg said, freshly changed back into her street clothes and sweeping in with her clipboard like a woman on a mission. “We’ve got notes for everyone. Haley, your hem. Courtney, straps. Ariana?—”

“Perfection,” Mitchell interrupted. “Absolute perfection.”

“Noted,” Meg said, before touching my arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. Then, softer, “I think so.”

“Good. Because in two weeks, you’re walking down that aisle, and I need my best girl shining.”

I smiled, just barely. “I’ll try not to trip.”

Ms. Julia Sugarbaker yapped approvingly. Or condescendingly. It was hard to tell with her.

We left an hour later with garment bags, lipstick smudges, and a whole lot of feelings I couldn’t quite name. But as I climbed into the car, one thought stayed lodged in my mind.

If I was married to that hunk, I would not let him out of my bed for a single minute.

No matter how hard I tried to forget, part of me still wanted to pull him back in and never let him go again.