Aria
The dress was a problem.
I knew it was a problem when I bought it eight months ago for a New Year’s party in Boston that I ended up not attending. I knew it was a problem when I pulled it out of my wardrobe last night and held it up in the mirror. I knew it was a problem when I put it on twenty minutes ago and it sat on my body like a red flag specifically designed to end a man’s self control.
I sent the picture anyway.
Omg, I sent the picture anyway.
I was in the car now, thigh pressed against the cold door, watching Minnesota glide past the window in the dark while my mother talked about the Henderson’s new lake house and Caden drove in complete silence from the front seat. He hadn’t said a word since I came downstairs. Hadn’t looked at me either, which should have felt like a
