Buy from Kate’s Store

Buy from Other Retailers

Summer

“Is that … a tattoo?”

Arabella Carter’s shriek pierced my ear drums, but to be fair, my hearing had become attuned to the decibel levels. For the last week, my future mother-in-law had criticized every aspect of the wedding preparation in the highest volume possible.

Nothing I did passed muster. My wedding dress showed too much leg (who wears a high-low hem beyond the age of six?), the rehearsal dinner had too many guests (I’m sure half of these people were not on the list), the wedding favors of hockey puck Christmas ornaments were too tacky (in July? And adding a diamond to the center is trying a smidge too hard, isn’t it?), the reception table centerpieces had far too much lilac (a trashy flower choice). Even the church was too liberal (was that a rainbow flag I saw outside?).

I could go on and on, but then I might sound like Mrs. C.

I longed to shout at her that this was what she was getting. A daughter-in-law from the backwoods of Mississippi, who up until a few years ago had only seen centerpieces in waiting room magazines. If the woman had the slightest inkling such dubious blood was about to contaminate her family tree, she would choke on her Van Cleef double string of pearls.

The Carters had certain expectations about the woman their son would marry. She should be elegant, pleasant, attractive, but most of all, malleable. She should be good at fitting in and not too flirty with his teammates. She should be the perfect wife to a hockey superstar. Not that Dash has reached superstar status with the Chicago Rebels. He was good, with the potential to be great, but I always suspected his non-hockey wealth gave him an excuse not to work as hard as everyone else.

Dash Carter’s wife should not be a shack-dwelling swamp child who had lied her way into every good thing she had. 

“Summer, you can’t show that on your wedding day!”

Mrs. Carter’s hand hovered over my bare shoulder, not touching, yet I still felt her disdain dripping on me like the creature’s acid saliva in the Alien movies. Though she’d never said so aloud, she didn’t like my name, which sounded like a snake’s hiss on her lips. As if, in trying to speak it, she sensed the truth about me.

Such a liar, Summer. Ain’t no one gonna take you for a society princess.

Oh, shut it, Shelby Mae.

My inner voice had become noisier the closer we got to the big day. 

In the mirror Mrs. Carter spoke to my reflection, locking her steely gaze with my decidedly less steely one. 

“A butterfly?”

A souvenir of my rebellion from Rusty’s Tattoo Parlor in Biloxi, inked when I was fifteen, the first time I’d run away. I thought I’d escaped for good, that I wouldn’t have to marry Jem Boudreaux. The butterfly was my reward, the symbol of my rebirth. 

They found me but I still had the tattoo.

“Her dress will cover it.” Rosie Burnett-Moretti was one of my bridesmaids, though not my maid of honor because Dash’s mother had insisted that exalted position be taken by Dinah, Dash’s sister. Along with Adeline Kershaw, Rosie was the only person I knew in the wedding party. The rest, all cousins of Dash that I had met a couple of days ago for the first time, were chosen by Mrs. Carter.

The old battleaxe sent a disparaging look Rosie’s way, evidently concluding that my bridesmaid’s full sleeve of colorful ink disqualified her from commenting on the appropriateness of my tiny shoulder tattoo. I didn’t think it was the end of the world if it peeked through the gossamer silk bodice, but then I had never been part of a high-society wedding before. 

Right now, I wore only the undergarment bustier, panties, and a well-placed towel across my lap. My collarbones poked from my skin like antlers through a tarp. I hated how I looked. Thin, gaunt. Panicked. One of the bridesmaids, Dash’s cousin Genevieve—or maybe Geneva—had spilt champagne on the dress, so I had removed it to clean it up. Now it hung a few feet away, almost daring me to daub it with lipstick. Ruin it before it ruined me.

Mrs. Carter tutted. “I’ll go see if that make-up girl has concealer.”

My unsuspecting cosmetic artist would be seated in the church along with the rest of the four hundred guests. I had wanted something small, but Dash let his mother control the invite list, a concession I made so we could marry in Chicago. (This should be happening at Stately Wayne Manor! Joke. The Carters called their ten-bedroom mansion on Cape Cod The Arbor, which made it sound like a retirement home.)

“If we’re not doing it on the Cape, at least let her have this, babe,” he had reasoned.

So I did. Because I was pliant and malleable, the good girl who did as she was told after years of scratching my way through the dirt. 

Things would be better once we were married.

This had been my mantra since we got engaged over a year ago. I’d dated Dash for almost four years prior to the proposal, and up until he asked me to marry him, I had considered our relationship fun and rather unserious. We didn’t live together, hadn’t even stashed extra toothbrushes or claimed a dresser drawer. Dating a hockey player for that long might look like a monumental commitment, but not for me. Only when I started taking an interest in my career did Dash start taking an interest in me.

Babe, it’s time we got down to brass tacks. Marriage, the whole nine yards. You’re twenty-five and my mother thinks we should be three years in with a couple of kids by now.

Not the most romantic of viewpoints, but Dash tended to see things in black and white. I still held out hope that he wanted this independently of whatever his family believed. That he wanted us. 

At least I had until this morning when I’d come across a printout of his vows. I couldn’t resist a peek. Positively lovely, they made my heart go boom and assured me that maybe this could work after all. 

Then I re-read them and realized he had left the AI prompt in. Write my wedding vows with some love shit.

Love shit, indeed.

With Mrs. Carter gone, I lay my forehead on my arms and took a breather on the vanity. Peeking up, I caught Rosie’s concerned gaze in the mirror. “I know, I know.”

“Didn’t say a word.” She placed her warm hands on my shoulders. “Now what can I get you? Tequila? Nunchucks? An Uber ride?”

All of the above …

I offered a pinned-on smile. “What happened to Adeline?”

“Oh, she’s on the phone to Lars, asking him to bring her favorite guitar pick.”

Adeline would be singing during the ceremony, a choice not approved by Dash or his mother. I’d insisted on it, a way for me to add a personal stamp to the proceedings.

The rest of the wedding party had left to flirt with the single hockey players, the society princesses going wild with the jocks for the evening. Unlike me, a swamp girl finally nabbing her prince.

I looked at my dress, and the sight of it filled me with a peculiar dread.

“I should probably put it back on?”

Rosie frowned. “Only if you want to.”

I hadn’t meant that to sound like a question. Of course I wanted to don my dress. How else would I get married?

Sure, wear the dress, Summer. What’s one more lie to all these nice people?

Zip it, Shelby Mae!

Rosie squeezed my shoulder. “You know, it’s just one day. Once it’s over, you’ll be back to normal. Chinese food in sweats, binging Netflix, hanging with the girls. All the stuff you did before you were married.”

Not all. There was the honeymoon to get through first in St. Bart’s, though it would be less honeymoon and more family vacation. As we would be staying at one of the Carters’ many homes, Arabella—sorry, Mrs. Carter—saw it as a perfect opportunity to get to know each other better. Then I would return to life in Chicago, except not to my “low-paying administrative job” as assistant to the general manager at my husband’s place of work.

How would it look, the wife of a billionaire hockey star filing folders and doing coffee runs for my franchise? There was also this gem: I earn millions, babe, and even if I got injured tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter because … trust fund!

Adeline came in, her green gaze troubled. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I just hated having to make Lars turn around with Mabel in the back seat. But he’s getting it now.”

Mabel was Lars’s adorable toddler. “We can wait for him. No one will mind if I’m late.” 

“He won’t be long.” Her expression cleared. “So, I saw Dash’s mom, giving off Mrs. Danvers energy.”

“She’s searching out concealer for this monstrosity.” Rosie grinned and gestured to my tattoo. “We’re just about to put the dress back on.”

Time to make this real. Accept my fate. 

The girls helped me into the Sadie Yates A-line wedding dress with a tight-fitting V-shaped bodice, sleeveless but with wide enough straps that my tattoo was concealed. (See, Mrs. C?) Crafted from silk satin, the skirt featured delicate pleats and an asymmetrical cut that showed off my legs. I thought it charming and modern. 

As for Mrs. Carter … well, she had sent numerous photos of princess gowns with voluminous fabric and multiple tiers, had even wanted Vera Wang to custom design a dress because off-the-rack was for “the rudely aspiring middle class.” I had insisted on a dress by Sadie. The funky designer was married to Gunnar Bond, a former Rebels player, and her playful fifties-era and rockabilly style spoke to me.

“Oh, wow!” Adeline touched her collarbones and looked a little weepy, even though she’d seen me in the dress once today. “You look so beautiful, Summer.”

I blinked at my reflection. The dress was lovely, the make-up on point, my blonde hair perfectly styled and flowing down my back.

“Now, the veil.” Rosie pinned it in place. Suddenly conscious of a need to get this over with, I stepped into the Jimmy Choo satin pumps. It was almost showtime and I couldn’t delay any longer.

And why on earth would you want to—

Not now, Shelby Mae!

“Absolutely gorgeous.” Rosie stood back to let me fill the mirror’s entire reflection. It was me and it wasn’t. The girl I was and the woman I was trying to become. Successful, accepted, important.

I gave up my job. 

Working as assistant to Ryder Calloway, the Chicago Rebels general manager, I had been learning the ins and outs of the franchise. It wasn’t all filing and coffee runs. But Dash was right. It was one thing for the girlfriend of a player to support herself this way, but keeping the position once married was just greedy. There were plenty of women who needed a job like that, who harbored ambitions to learn the business of high-stakes professional hockey. I might have been one of them once, but not anymore.

I would be Dash Carter’s wife.

I shook myself back to my new reality.

“I think I’ll call Lars again,” Adeline said. “See how close he is.”

With a nervous smile, she stepped outside, leaving me with Rosie, who regarded me with a curious expression.

“Sure you’re okay?”

“Just jitters. Normal, right?”

“Definitely. But …”

“But what?”

She shrugged. “You’ve gone awfully quiet. The closer we get to lift-off, the quieter you’ve become.”

I gave up my job. 

After today, I would spend two weeks with Dash’s family on an inescapable island, then I would return to a life I wasn’t prepared for. Society princess. Player wife. Stay at home—don’t even think it. Not yet.

“I-I’m fine. Just think I should potty one more time.” I probably should have thought of that before I put the dress on.

“Okay, need help in there? I could probably stand to the side and hold the skirt, as awkward as that sounds.”

“Oh, I’m fine!” I picked up my phone and placed it in the hidden pocket Sadie had sewn into the gown. The heels felt a little wobbly but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Inside the restroom, my fingers went instinctively to the rectangle of plastic wrapped in paper, secreted inside my bustier. My momma’s words came back to me, both counsel and warning. 

You ain’t got boobs big enough for a comfy bra, hun. But there’s always room for a GOOD-lite. Make sure you got one, no matter the situation.

Pretty much the only decent advice she ever gave me.

A streak of sunlight from the window above the trash can lit up my GOOD-lite as I took it out. A one-hundred-dollar bill wrapped around my driver’s license and my ATM card. Most people had more practical necessities for the equivalent of a go bag: a first-aid kit, a multi-tool knife, a decent supply of cash, even a passport. From the age of sixteen, I carried my survival kit, minimalist as it was, on me at all times. 

Get Out Of Dodge. GOOD-lite.

So much for spine and gumption, earned from my scrappy journey to this point. I gave up my job. I caved to Dash’s demand without much of a fight. I could have managed the rest—Dash’s family, his occasional self-centeredness, even the lies I had to tell to get here, but my job? Anger rose, swift and sharp. That job meant the world to me, maybe more than my fiancé. He hadn’t even questioned when I said my family was dead and I wanted no one from my childhood at the wedding.

He didn’t want to know, and I didn’t want to tell him. Now here we were, setting sail on a new life with nothing but secrets and resentment to steer us.

I can’t do this.

Time to GOOD the hell out of here.