It's Got A Ring To It Read Online Free Page A

a dress. As itchy as it was, I thanked my
lucky stars for the cover.
Still
i
n her comfort zone, she blabb
ed
about her reception plans, “…and after the
cake-cutting, it’s on to the candy station, followed by more photos, and a
video montage before
the
dancing
starts…
” She
trailed off again, but for some reason, the candy station stuck in my mind.
    When she asked me to design the whole table for the station, I just
figured I’d do it because she’s my sister. It hadn’t dawned on me that it could
be another selling point. I couldn’t believe it. To my annoying little sister’s
credit
—
the one
whose diet once consisted of paste and mud pies
—
I
owed
a debt of gratitude. The pieces to my
presentation started coming together.
    First, I would talk about my shop and all it has to offer then go
into the whole candy station feature, and end it all with a bang when I pitched
a color-coordinated candy line for brides.
    Ooh, I wanted to do the happy dance right there, in the middle of the
bridal abyss, but the words that I had just heard the saleslady utter stopped
the reel dead in its track. Rewind. What did she say?
    “Myles Donovan called to say he’s on his way. He’s with the woman
who’s
in dressing room three
,
”
she said
to another consultant
.
His name breezed
nonchalantly
from her
as if it meant
nothing. The man
who has
terrorized my life was going to be in the same place at any minute? My luck had
never been that timely, or favorable.
    I didn’t know whether to hide or stand at the storefront ready for
combat. Settling for discretion, I pretended to be checking out shoe clips and
tiaras, as if they interested me at all. Their voices were low, but I heard
them hemming and hawing about his rugged good looks. Not only was it completely
tacky for them to be swooning over someone else’s fiancé, but they were clueless to the nightmare of outlandish harassment he’
s
put me through. What type
of sicko would want to marry him?
    As if on cue, a woman floated out of dressing room three
—
to request a smaller
size, no less. Not only was she mind
-
numbingly gorgeous, she was a skinny twig,
too. For heaven’s sake, it was Barbie, anatomically correct in all her
splendor. In pink and black lace trim La Perla , I was practically drooling .
    At her beck
and
call, someone rushed in with clamps to cinch her dress. Once she was out of
earshot, Wilma and Betty
—
the
saleswomen
—
jabbered
on about their hopes of seeing him again. My mind was fixated on what I’d
actually say to him. “Hi, I’m Laila , the woman, whose
phone number you’ve given to every creditor in the world and personally asked
to call me daily at the wee hours of the morning.” Something short and sweet
perhaps, “Die.” Better yet, “I hate your guts, have a nice day.”
    Right at a good part in the gossip, the chitchat stopped, and I knew
he arrived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wilma losing all consciousness.
Her arms fell to her sides. Her entire face
turned
red with embarrassment. By the time
Betty clued in, they bec
a
me
drones. Slowly, I turned my head in the direction of their attention.
    “Hi, I’m Myles Donovan,” the words sashay
ed
from his mouth rhythmically, like a
songbird. Could he be the same Myles Donovan? Betty and Wilma mentioned good l
oo
ks, but I figured their
taste in men would be directly related to their
mediocre
ratings
in the looks department.
    As I contemplated whether he was indeed my Myles or an impostor, the
same question loomed over me. What should I say to him? I didn’t know. My usual
arrogance was completely undermined by the sheer sight of him. Unknowingly,
he’d taken me off guard, and off my mighty high horse.
    Actually, Wilma and Betty were right.
H
e looked like he’d be nice. And, the poser did have rugged good looks. In
addition to, a chiseled jawbone, wavy McDreamy hair,
translucent eyes, and a body that didn’t have to beg for more
—
since it probably got
offers