by Maggie Way
“I’m so incredibly proud of you, Jasmine. You know what you want, and you aren’t afraid to take a risk to get it. Maybe one day, I’ll be more like you.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said, and he could hear the emotion coating her voice. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Mitch. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Mitch said and hung up the phone.
Five minutes later, Phillipe pulled up in front of the bridal salon. Mitch took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car.
It was time to get Zoey.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zoey opened the door to Madame Rousseau’s with shaking hands, causing the tiny bell overhead to jingle. Madame Rousseau was changing a mannequin but looked up at the sound. Her face split into a grin.
“Zoé!” she said in her accented French. She motioned to the back room. “You here Brooke?”
Zoey shook her head. “Someone from the wedding planner’s office will be by later today to pick up the wedding and bridesmaid dresses. I’m actually here to buy a wedding dress for myself. Mitch and I are eloping this weekend.” She forced the words through her constricted throat. Would they really go through with it? Even a fake wedding felt too intimate.
It scared her how much she wanted it to be real.
Madame Rousseau’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands. “You marry?”
Zoey nodded.
“You dress?”
Zoey nodded again, running a hand through her new lilac highlights. They’d look fantastic with the bridesmaid dress. Hopefully they’d look just as good in her own wedding pictures.
Fake wedding pictures, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t matter how her hair looked.
Madame Rousseau jabbered in French and motioned for Zoey to come. Zoey adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder and followed her down the hallway.
It wasn’t like this was a real wedding—it was purely for Alan’s benefit. It might not even have to happen. She’d find the least expensive gown, no matter how traditional it was, and grin and bear it.
And she definitely wouldn’t think about what it would be like to marry Mitch for real.
Zoey walked into the room and let out a gasp. Gone were the traditional wedding dresses from the front of the store.
“You like?” Madame Rousseau asked.
“Oh, yes,” Zoey said. “These are perfect.”
Madame Rousseau bustled around the room, pulling dresses off hangers and dropping them in Zoey’s arms. The pile grew until Zoey could barely see over the top of it, and then Madame Rousseau motioned her into a dressing room. Zoey stripped to her underwear, picked up the first dress, and started to change.
She’d never obsessed over her future wedding the way Brooke had, but Zoey had thought about it. And she’d never been able to visualize herself in a traditional princess wedding gown. These dresses were anything but traditional. Zoey tried on a rockabilly wedding dress with a red tulle underskirt. She tried on a two-piece skirt and shell top combo that showed a strip of her stomach. She tried on a bohemian style dress in a rose pink. But she knew the moment she had found The One.
The dress slid over her hips, the silk smooth and soft against her skin. Zoey turned around and let out a sigh. When her clients spoke of love at first sight, it always took a lot of effort not to roll her eyes. But now she understood. This dress was perfect.
She opened the door and stepped onto the platform. Madame Rousseau clasped her hands together and smiled.
“Simplement parfait,” she said and motioned for Zoey to turn around so she could fasten the buttons.
Zoey admired her reflection in the mirror. The dress had a 1950s feel, with a sweetheart neckline and fitted bodice that flared out at the waist. The cut was similar to the dress she’d worn to Disneyland—the dress she first kissed Mitch in.
A black sash wrapped around the waist and held a flower made of black, red, and white polka dot fabric. Zoey slowly turned, arching her neck to take in the cutout back. She loved the way the skirt just brushed her knees with a gentle swish. This was a dress she could dance in.
“I love it,” Zoey whispered.
Madame Rousseau held up a finger, and returned a minute later holding a birdcage veil with a delicate, glittering peacock-design hairpiece encrusted in gemstones. She motioned for Zoey to bend down, and then gently pinned the veil into Zoey’s hair.
Zoey stood and stared at herself in the three-sided mirror. Madame Rousseau brought over a pair of red high heels. Zoey slipped them on, immediately feeling her spine straighten and shoulders pull back. She looked at herself in the mirror and imagined walking toward Mitch and holding his hands as she promised to love him forever.
In this dress, she felt completely, totally herself.
“It’s beautiful,” Zoey murmured.
“You like?” Madame Rousseau asked.
Zoey nodded.
“You buy?”
Again, Zoey nodded, blinking back the tears in her eyes. She could no sooner leave without this dress than cut off her own arm. “Absolutely.”
Madame Rousseau smiled, grasping Zoey’s chin and kissing her cheek. She pointed to the veil. “For you. No money.”
“Thank you,” Zoey whispered, touched. But she also felt dishonest. What would Madame Rousseau say if she knew the wedding was all for show?
Zoey paid for the dress and shoes, thanked Madame Rousseau again for the veil, and left. What would Mitch think of the dress? Would he love how it showcased her individuality and style, or would he be embarrassed that she wasn’t wearing something more traditional?
It didn’t matter. That dress made her feel amazing. It gave her confidence in the person she was, and she wouldn’t lose that person for anyone. Not even Mitch.
Phillipe waited at the curb. Mitch got out of the car and helped Zoey lay the dress bag and boxes with the shoes and veil in the trunk.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Mitch asked.
“I think so.” Zoey got in the car, avoiding Mitch’s gaze.
“I did, too.” Mitch shut the door. “To Luke’s, Phillipe.”
Phillipe nodded and pulled into traffic.
“I haven’t seen Alan today,” Zoey said. “Maybe the wedding won’t be necessary.”
“I saw him as I was leaving the tuxedo shop. He saluted me.”
Zoey snorted. “Are you serious?”
“I know.”
“He has some serious guts.”
“Yeah, well, those guts will earn him fifty thousand dollars if we aren’t careful.”
“This plan is going to work.”
He reached out, placing a hand over hers. “I hope so.”
Zoey withdrew her hand and folded her arms as her stomach trembled. Traitor. The fake wedding was making her all girly and romantic and confused. But Mitch couldn’t handle her in real life.
Mitch cleared his throat. “I talked to Jasmine. She’s coming to Paris next month.”
All thoughts of the wedding fled. “Really?”
“Yes. She’s impressed them so much that they’re taking her to fashion week.”
Zoey laughed, clapping her hands. “That’s great. I always knew she could do it.”
“I was worried, but she’s proved that I was concerned for nothing. I’m really proud of her.”
“Man, I wish we were still going to be here. I’d love to go shopping with her on the Champs Élysées. She has such great taste.” Jasmine would make a great sister-in-law. Brooke was the closest thing Zoey had to a sister, and shopping wasn’t her thing.
No. She couldn’t think of Jasmine like that. This wedding was fake. Absolutely positively one hundred percent fake.
“Zoey...” Mitch cleared his throat. “When all this is over, I want to talk.”
“No.”
“Zoey—”
“When we get back, I’m quitting Toujour and doing makeup full-time.” The words were out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying. But wearing that wedding dress had
helped her realize she needed to leave behind the career that stifled her.
Mitch’s eyes were wide. “Are you sure?”
Her heart thudded in her chest, but Zoey pressed on. He had to know that this is who she was—the kind of person that made reckless career decisions at the drop of a hat.
But it wasn’t reckless, at least not to her. It was right, and she’d been thinking about it for months.
“Yes. I might have to get a few roommates or move to a different apartment, because things will be tight for a while.”
“I’m sure Brooke would let you drop to part-time at Toujour, if you’re worried about money. It’d give you a steady paycheck until things were off the ground.”
Zoey took a deep breath. “No. I want to do it full-time.”
Mitch’s lips pressed into a tight line. “When will you tell Brooke?”
Zoey’s chest tightened as she thought about how that conversation would go. But it was long overdue. She couldn’t keep pretending to be something she wasn’t, even if it disappointed her best friend. “As soon as she gets back from her honeymoon.”
Zoey could see the questions swirling in Mitch’s mind. She knew what he was going to ask—What will you do for insurance? What about a 401(k)? What happens when the clients dry up? How can you possibly think this is a responsible financial decision?
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Zoey let out a snort. “Aren’t you going to point out all the ways this could blow up in my face?”
“No.”
“No?”
Mitch sighed, rubbing a hand over his curls. “It’s who you are, and while I know that making that kind of choice would stress me out, it’s exactly what you need to thrive. We’re different, Zoey. But that’s kind of the beauty of us.”
“There is no us.”
“There could be.”
Zoey didn’t have a comeback for that, so she folded her arms and didn’t say a word.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“The security firm should be here any moment to go over the apartment,” Mitch said. He propped the door open for Zoey with his foot since his arms were full. One held two boxes—shoes and a veil, according to Zoey—while the other held the garment bag with his tux. The tuxedo he was going to get fake married in. He shook his head, trying to calm his nerves.
Zoey brushed past him, the dress bag held high above her head. Her eyes were fiery with challenge. “I still think this is unnecessary. He didn’t place a bug in my stuff.”
And the Earth also wasn’t round. It was the only explanation that made any sort of sense, but Mitch understood why Zoey didn’t want to believe it. She had been naive, but she hadn’t purposefully tried to hurt Brooke or Luke.
“I know,” Mitch lied.
“And there’s no way he got in this apartment to place a bug. The doorman barely lets us inside without ten forms of picture ID and an oath sworn on a Bible. Besides, if Alan had been listening to our conversations, he wouldn’t need to track us because he’d have all the information he needed.”
“A tracking device wouldn’t let him listen to our conversations.” Mitch let the door swing closed. He wasn’t worried that the apartment was bugged, but allowing the security firm to sweep the entire apartment would hopefully help Zoey feel less singled out.
He dropped the boxes off in Zoey’s room, then hung the tuxedo up in his own. He pulled it out of the bag so it could breathe, running a hand along the rich fabric to smooth out a wrinkle.
The dress bag Zoey had held was surprisingly slim, the box for her veil much smaller than expected, and his mind spun with the possibilities. What kind of a wedding dress would Zoey pick? She had looked amazing in Brooke’s long, lacy dress, but he couldn’t imagine her choosing something like that for herself. But maybe Zoey hadn’t put much thought into the purchase, since the wedding was all for show.
A lump rose in Mitch’s throat, and he tried to swallow it back.
He didn’t want it to be all for show. He wanted Zoey.
A knock at the front door pulled him from his thoughts. Mitch dropped his hand from the tux and strode into the front room and opened the door. A man with a black goatee and a woman with a ponytail stood there, both carrying duffel bags and wearing matching jackets with the security firm’s logo.
“Bonjour,” the woman said. She was young, perhaps twenty-five, with her hair threaded through a baseball cap. “Are you Monsieur Harris?”
“Yes,” Mitch said.
“I am Adelaide, and this is Ricard. We’re from the security firm.”
“Thank you so much for coming,” Mitch said. “Please, come in.”
“Merci,” she said.
“You want us to check for electronic tracking devices, oui?” Ricard said.
“Yes,” Mitch said. “The whole apartment, please. We have a pesky reporter that’s been following us, and we think that might be how.”
Zoey’s bedroom door opened, and she leaned against the frame, a frown on her lips. Mitch scratched the back of his neck, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“Where would you like us to start?” Adelaide asked.
“My room,” Zoey said, staring straight at Mitch. “You won’t find anything, so it shouldn’t take long.”
Maybe Mitch was wrong, and Alan wasn’t tracking them through Zoey. Her eyes accused him of not trusting her, and guilt made his stomach churn.
“Okay,” Adelaide said.
Adelaide and Ricard set their duffel bags down right outside Zoey’s door and unzipped them. Ricard withdrew a long rod with a flat circle on the end, and Adelaide pulled out a hand-held device that looked like a two-way radio.
Zoey motioned to her room with a flourish. “After you.”
They nodded and stepped inside. Ricard immediately began sweeping the disk all over the walls, a steady beep beep beep emanating from the equipment. Adelaide ran the hand-held device over Zoey’s bed. Adelaide nudged the closet open, then motioned to Zoey’s suitcase. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” Zoey said.
Mitch watched, hands buried in his pockets. The devices continued to beep, low and steady.
“The closet is clear,” Adelaide said.
“Excellent.” Zoey grabbed her purse off the small bedside table and turned it upside down, dumping the contents on her bed. “Scan that, too. If something is going to be bugged, it’ll be whatever’s in there. That’s everything from the charity gala that I brought to France.”
Adelaide nodded, sweeping the contents. Mitch rolled forward on the balls of his feet, holding his breath. The wand swept over a lipstick tube, compact mirror, and zebra-print wallet.
Behind Mitch, the beep beep beep grew louder and faster.
“I may have found something,” Ricard said.
Mitch whipped around. The wand swept back and forth across the floor right in front of Mitch.
“What is it?” Mitch asked.
“It seems to be on your shoe,” Ricard said.
“What?” The word exploded out of Mitch, and he looked at Ricard incredulously.
Adelaide quickly walked over to Ricard. “Yes, it sounds like you have something.”
Zoey crawled over the bed and stood next to Mitch. “No way. He was around Alan for less than a minute.”
“May I see your shoes please, sir?” Ricard asked.
Mitch slowly sank onto the bed.
This couldn’t be happening.
Mitch removed his shoes, and Adelaide swept her hand-held device over each one. The beeping grew fast and loud. She set down the device and picked up one shoe, then nodded at Ricard. “Good work.”
“Where is it?” Mitch yanked the shoe out of Adelaide’s hand and held it up to the light. He turned the shoe this way and that, but nothing appeared out of place.
Zoey ran a hand through her hair, causing the newly lilac highlights to fall into her face. “Alan isn’t James Bond,” she said.
“I don’t see anything.” Mitch turned the shoe around again, more sl
owly this time. The light hit the shoe, creating a shadow over the outside arch, right above the sole.
Not a shadow. A sticker. Mitch peered closer. It was no larger than a quarter, and nearly flush with the leather.
Zoey gasped. Heart thundering in his chest, Mitch slid a finger under the object. The material was firm, and the adhesive clung stubbornly to the leather. Mitch forced the edge up with his fingernail and started tugging. His grip slipped, and he grabbed the sticker again, pulling harder. Slowly it peeled away, leaving a sticky residue on his shoe.
“Unbelievable,” Zoey muttered.
“There is your tracker,” Adelaide said.
The back of the sticker was criss-crossed with gray lines, a miniature circuit board betraying them to the paparazzi. Alan knew everywhere they’d gone since leaving California.
It had been Mitch all along. Two weeks he had blamed Zoey, but it was his fault, not hers.
“This is one of ours,” Mitch said.
“What do you mean?” Zoey asked.
Mitch held the chip out to her with a shaking hand. “Ryder Communications makes these. They’ve been on the market a few years now. Luke’s dad had a team develop them.”
“For what?” Zoey asked, incredulous.
“It started out as a gimmicky product to help parents keep track of easily lost items, like their kids’ shoes. But then we developed a more sophisticated version, with longer tracking range, to place on young children for their parents’ peace of mind. The bracelets are a lot more popular. We don’t make many of these stickers anymore.” Which was probably why the possibility had never even entered his mind.
His fault. Not Zoey’s. He’d been so arrogant, so stupid.
“How is it still transmitting?” Zoey asked. “We’ve been walking around the city for days. We played in a puddle, for heaven’s sake.”
“They make the trackers waterproof since they were originally used on shoes,” Mitch said. He ran a hand over his hair, the tracker still in his other hand. He couldn’t believe that it had been him all along.
He’d been so wrong about Zoey. Judged her so harshly.
“Put it back on your shoe,” Zoey said.