Pretty Little Mistake

“Laurel!” I call out in desperation, on the verge of tears. “I need your help.”

She pokes her head in my open doorway a moment later. “Hey, what’s up?”

“My dress,” I hiss, trying to squeeze the back closed. “It doesn’t fit!”

There’s a charity event tonight, one Jaci got me an invite for so I could write an article. I knew it was black tie, but I wasn’t worried about it since I have plenty of dresses that fit the criteria. Or so I thought. My bed is currently covered in a graveyard of all the options I’ve tried on that don’t fit. My last-ditch effort of a dress clings to my body in desperation, the zipper refusing to budge.

I’ve gained only a few pounds so far. Apparently, that’s just enough to ensure that none of my dresses fit.

I’m going to lose my mind.

Laurel, bless her, doesn’t laugh at me.

“Do you need me to zip you in?”

“Please!”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I plead with myself. I already have a full face of makeup. I can’t afford to mess it up now. I’m sweating, so that’s bad enough.

Laurel tugs on the zipper. “Uh—”

My head whips around. “Don’t say uh. Get it zipped, girl! Put some oomph into it!”

She gapes at me. “If I do that, the zipper is going to break.”

“Don’t say that.” I stamp my feet impatiently. “You have to try.”

Is it the end of the world that my dress doesn’t fit? No. Do I care about the weight? Also no. I’m growing a fucking human, for Chrissake. I should be allowed to expand. But I am in desperate need to leave this apartment and get to the event. There is no time to go shopping for a new dress.

“Suck it in,” Laurel declares, cracking her knuckles. “I can do this. We’re getting you in this dress.”

I suck my stomach in as much as I can, trying to help, too, by holding the zipper as close to closed as I can.

“It’s. Not. Working.” She bites the words out through gritted teeth. “Hold on.” She braces her hand against my back. “I can do this.”

And.

Then.

The.

Zipper.

Breaks.

Silence descends on my bedroom.

“Lennon,” she whimpers. “I am so sorry.”

I take a deep, bracing breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I cannot afford to get upset about this. It’s not worth it. It’s just a dress.

“It’s okay.” I count down from ten in my head, giving myself that short span of time to feel what I need to—mostly panic and dread.

“What can I do? I might have a dress that works. I can go look.”

She starts to leave, but I say, “We’re the same size.” Which has always been a convenient thing up until now. “Were,” I correct. “We were the same size.”

Laurel looks close to tears on my behalf. Bless her. “Let me run to a store. I can find something.”

“Maybe I can make a skirt-and-blouse combo work.”

“I thought you said earlier this was a black-tie event.”

“I-it is.”

“You have to have a dress, a gown, something.”

Beckham is going with me as the photographer: since Jaci thinks we’re a real couple, she figured she might as well team us up for this event.

“I’ll call Beckham and let him know I’ll be running late. And then I’ll swing by somewhere and get it sorted before I go to the event.”

“Are you sure? I have no problem going out.”

“You’re already in your pajamas,” I point out. “And you should get to enjoy your evening. Not have to hunt down something for me to wear. It’ll be fine.”

Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I’ll start to believe it.

She clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault nothing fits me.” I have Beckham’s pet sperm currently incubating in my body to thank for that. Buying some clothes is going to be a must this weekend.

When Laurel leaves my room, I reluctantly pick up my phone and call Beckham.

“What?” he barks into the phone upon answering, the sound of the chaotic New York City streets blaring behind him.

I decide to cut to the chase. “I’m going to be late. I don’t have a dress.”

He guffaws. “What do you mean, you don’t have a dress?”

“Not one that fits.” I reach up to run my fingers through my hair in frustration, but I quickly stop myself before I spoil the updo Laurel spent so long perfecting.

He sighs heavily. “You need something to wear?”

“Obviously,” I huff, sitting on the edge of my bed. Now I’m going to have to put all these clothes away before I can go to sleep.

“Text me your size.”

“What?” I blurt out into the phone. Is he crazy? “No, I’m not giving you my dress size. That’s private information.”

“Your vagina is private, not your dress size, and you let me fuck that. Text me your fucking dress size.”

My jaw is on the floor. “And then what?”

“Then sit your ass down and wait for me to get there.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you don’t want to admit it, but you like it.”

The call ends because he loves to have the last word.

That leaves me to have to actually listen to him and wait, which I’m certain is exactly what he wanted.

Beckham stands on the other side of the door looking like some sort of fallen angel. The tuxedo he wears is cut and fitted to his body like a second skin. There’s no doubt that it’s a custom-tailored tux. No rentals for Beckham Sullivan—not that Sullivans would ever have to consider such a travesty.

His camera bag is slung over one shoulder, a garment bag clasped in his opposite hand.

“Are you going to let me in or eye-fuck me all night? We have places to be.”

“Get in here,” I grumble. He’s always ruining everything. “Let me see it.” I reach out with grabby hands for the bag.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he says in a husky sex-promising voice.

Laurel squeaks from her spot on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Ignore him,” I hiss at her.

“I see why he got you pregnant.”

“Laurel.”

“What? He’s . . . potent.”

Beckham’s grin grows. I’ve never seen him smile so big. “Don’t you say a word.” I point a warning finger in his face. “And you”—I swing toward Laurel—“keep your thoughts in your brain.”

She throws her hands up, accidentally shucking her blanket off in the process. “No promises.”

“I need the dress,” I remind Beckham. “We’re already running late.”

“We’re fine. We have thirty minutes.”

“And city traffic to contend with,” I remind him, snatching the bag when he won’t hand it over.

I hurry to my room and shut the door behind me. After hanging up the garment bag on the back of my closet door, I carefully unzip it to reveal the most stunning dress I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like something straight from my imagination. Thin spaghetti straps attach to a champagne-gold dress with a sweetheart neckline. It seems to shimmer in the light, but it’s not made of sequins. The fabric is almost soft, velvety.

Knowing I can’t afford to waste any more time staring at the gown, I quickly take off my lounge clothes and slip into it. It fits like a glove, but I’m still going to need help with the zipper.

“Laurel,” I call out. “I need help.”

The door opens a second later like she was waiting for this very thing.

Only, when I look over my shoulder, it’s Beckham slipping into my room like the devil himself come to tempt me to the dark side. Butterflies take off in my stomach.

Obviously, it makes sense that I would be attracted to the father of my child, or else I wouldn’t have had sex with him in the first place, but something washes over me where I’d much rather ditch the event and tug him onto my bed.

Hormones—it has to be, because there’s no logical way that I actually want to fuck this man again.

He arches a brow, and I realize I’ve been staring far longer than is socially acceptable. “You needed help?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter, hoping I don’t sound as horny as I feel. “The zipper. I can’t reach it.”

“Turn around.” His tone is raspy, commanding. I can’t help but listen. A shiver races down my spine when he ever so lightly skims his finger over the back of my neck. He finds the zipper at the base of my spine, then drags it all the way up. “Perfect fit.” The words are almost a whisper. I gasp in surprise, my body falling back into his when he kisses the top of my shoulder. He steps away, leaving me cold. “Do you have shoes that will work with the dress?”

It takes me a moment to gather my wits. “Yes.”

He waits by my dresser, looking around my room while I grab heels from my closet. “Your room is different than I expected.”

“How so?” I sit down to fit my feet into the heels.

“It’s . . . mismatched.”

I look around, trying to see it through his eyes. “You thought it would be like my parents’ house? Cold, white, and sterile?” I shudder at the very thought. “No way.” My room is a mix of earth-toned colors with furniture that doesn’t match the next piece. Don’t get me wrong: they all work together, but nothing is a set.

I grab my clutch off the bed. It has my phone tucked safely inside, along with a small notepad I’ll use to take notes. I’m not sure I’ll ever outgrow my love for paper and pen. “This dress . . . how’d you get it?”

He looks at me like I’m insane. “I went into a store and picked it out.”

“You picked this out?”

“I didn’t shuck the duty off on some employee, if that’s what you’re implying. Besides”—he opens the door to the rest of the apartment, eyeing me over his shoulder—“I know what you look good in. They wouldn’t.”