Read A Beaumont Christmas Wedding for Free Online Page B

looked up from his phone.
    Their eyes met, and her breath caught in her throat. The warmth in his eyes, the curve to his lips, the arch in his eyebrow—heat flooded Whitney’s cheeks. Was he happy to see her? Or was she misreading the signals?
    Then he glanced at Jo. “Ladies,” he said in that confident tone of his. It should have seemed wholly out of place in the midst of this many wedding gowns, but on him? “I was just about to call. Jo, they’re waiting for you.”
    “Where’s the wedding planner?” Whitney asked. If the planner wasn’t here, then she and Jo weren’t late. Late was being the last one in.
    “Getting Jo’s dress ready.”
    Dang.
Whitney tried to give her friend a smile that was more confident than she actually felt. Jo threaded her way back through racks of dresses and disappeared into a room.
    Then Whitney and Matthew were alone. Were they still almost flirting? Or were they back to where they’d been at dinner? If only she hadn’t fallen into him. If only he hadn’t recognized her. If only...
    “Is there someone else who can help me try my dress on?”
    “Jo’s dress requires several people to get her into it,” he said. Then he bowed and pointed the way. “Your things are in here.”
    “Thanks.” She held her head high as she walked past him.
    “You’re welcome.” His voice trickled over her skin like a cool stream of water on a too-hot day.
    She stepped into a dressing room—thankfully, one with a door. Once she had that door shut, she sagged against it. That voice, that face were even better today than they’d been last night. Last night, he’d been trying to cover his surprise and anger. Today? Today he just looked happy to see her.
    She looked at the room she’d essentially locked herself in. It was big enough for a small love seat and a padded ottoman. A raised dais stood in front of a three-way mirror.
    And there, next to the mirrors, hung a dress. It was a beautiful dove-gray silk gown—floor length, of course. Sleeveless, with sheer gathered silk forming one strap on the left side. The hemline was flared so that it would flow when she walked down the aisle, no doubt.
    It was stunning. Even back when she’d walked the red carpet, she’d never worn a dress as sophisticated as this. When she was still working on
Growing Up Wildz
, she’d had to dress modestly—no strapless, no deep necklines. And when she’d broken free of all the restrictions that had hemmed her in for years, well, “classic” hadn’t been on her to-do list. She’d gone for shock value. Short skirts. Shorter skirts. Black. Torn shirts that flashed her chest. Offensive slogans. Safety pins holding things together. Anything she could come up with to show that she wasn’t a squeaky-clean kid anymore.
    And it’d worked. Maybe too well.
    She ran her hands over the silk. It was cool, smooth. If a dress could feel beautiful, this did. A flicker of excitement started to build. Once, before it’d been a chore, she’d liked to play dress-up. Maybe this would be fun. She hoped.
    Several pairs of shoes dyed to match were lined up next to the dress—some with four-inch heels. Whitney swallowed hard. There’d be no way she could walk down the aisle in those beauties and not fall flat on her face.
    Might as well get this over with. She stripped off her parka and sweater, then the boots and jeans. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror—hard not to with those angles. Ugh. The socks had to go. And...
    Her bra had straps. The dress did not.
    She shucked the socks and, before she could think better about it, the bra. Then she hurried into the dress, trying not to pull on the zipper as the silk slipped over her head with a shushing sound.
    The fabric puddled at her feet as she tried to get the zipper pulled up, but her arms wouldn’t bend in that direction. “I need help,” she called out, praying that an employee or a seamstress or anyone besides Matthew Beaumont was out there.
    “Is