For The One(105)

I had no desire whatsoever to rub salt into her wounds. Caitlyn was a good friend and I didn’t want to hurt her, so I chose my words carefully. “He does…and it would have been exciting if our clothes had come off, but they didn’t.”

Her mouth twisted. “Well, that sucks.” But I could tell she wasn’t all that disappointed by the news.

I turned away to put my bag on my cot, distracted by the box sitting there. “Who left their stuff on my cot?”

“That’s for you, apparently. Johnny came by doing deliveries for Mistress Agnes last night. Said that one was for you.”

“The dressmaker? I didn’t order anything from her.”

“Yeah, we thought you’d won the lotto or something,” said Ann with a wide grin. “Or robbed a bank.”

“That’s what it would take for me to afford her gorgeous dresses…” My eyes skimmed the box. It must have been a mistake.

“Open it up and see what it is,” Ann said.

But I already had the top off the box, and what I saw literally took my breath away. I pulled the pile of gorgeous blue cloth from the white tissue and held it up. Starting with the palest blue—almost white at the shoulders—there was a gradual ombre from sky blue to cerulean and every shade of blue in between, until it became a deep, dark midnight blue at the hem. The dress was decorated with gold embroidery at the neckline that extended down the long, flowing sleeves. The garment looked like it had been woven from the sky, the clearest blue lake and a midnight starfield.

“Holy shit,” Caitlyn uttered in a harsh whisper. “That is gorgeous.”

“I know,” I said in a trembling voice. My eyes flew up to the pale blue at the shoulders—pale, pale blue. Like the Turkish pools. Some long name that I couldn’t remember, even though I’d searched for Google images the night he’d told me about them. This dress could not have come from anyone other than William.

And not only was it beautiful, but it was such a thoughtful thing to do. I sank down on the cot next to me and passed my hand over the exquisite material. It was too much. I shouldn’t accept this.

“I think I can guess who had this sent to you,” Caitlyn said in a low voice.

I looked up, biting my lip. She was smiling. A very small smile.

Ann sat on the cot beside Caitlyn and put an arm around her shoulder.

I took a breath and released it. “Caitlyn, I’m—”

She held her hand up. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. But please, for the love of God, don’t break his heart. William is hard enough to reach, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that he’s got it bad for you. I think I’ve mostly just been in denial. Honestly, Jenna, you’re the sweetest person ever. You deserve him.”

Don’t break his heart.

Yet as I looked at her and then down at the dress, I felt that strange knot of emotion twisting in my chest. I had to wonder—whose heart was breaking, exactly?

My chest physically hurt. Like someone had sunk a grappling hook deep inside and was tugging it in the direction of William. And the harder they pulled, the deeper it went.

I was so confused. I was so attached. Since seeing him again, I couldn’t deny that feeling of my heart leaping in my throat. What did this mean? What was my heart telling me? What had the cards told me? And that talk with Alex? And…just…everything.

With each passing minute, the thought of leaving with the Renaissance Faire became less and less appealing.

My nose started to sting as I swallowed more tears, and soon I was surrounded by the other ladies in the tent—Caitlyn, Ann, and even their friend Fiona.

“Hey,” cooed Caitlyn. “What’s wrong? You don’t want him? Because you already know that I’ll take him,” she added playfully.

I shook my head and patted the dress again. “I’m just confused.”

“But do you want him?”

Fingering the delicate glass beads sewn into the bodice of the gown, I knew I didn’t really have to think about it. As much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, I did. I totally did. So I let out a breathy, “Yes.”

But…did he still want me? Or had he already mentally tucked me into that group of women who would just hurt him and leave him? Just the thought of being in the same category as his mother, who essentially abandoned him, made me feel ill.

But then I thought about the way he’d held me last night as we lay next to each other. How his thumb had caressed my wrist, my hand. How he’d laced his fingers around mine and hadn’t let go.

And somehow I knew, deep down, that he never would.