29
Remy had never felt quite so pampered in her life. She stood on a step stool, clutching an armful of her tulle skirt in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.
Larkin knelt at her feet, doing up the straps of Remy’s pale blue heels.
She’d been waxed and coiffed and made up, her blond hair flowing down her back in soft waves and her huge blue eyes rimmed with dark kohl.
Shelby tossed back her own glass of champagne. “Drink up, it will steady your nerves.”
Remy blushed.
“It seems silly, being nervous. I mean, I have wanted this for as long as I can remember,” she said.
“Except those few years when you wanted Sawyer to drop dead,” Shelby pointed out.
Remy pulled a face. “Yeah, except those.”
“You’re going to be okay,” her mother said from her seat across the room, sitti
