𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 • Love Quinn

six 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲

"So, I heard you arranged the flowers for the ceremony." Marge came to a stop. Her flats were almost soundless against the wooden floor of the grand hall filled with soft jazz music (per her request), laughter and chatter. All things her mind disregarded easily. She was desperate to put a voice to the nameless face that she saw with a new intricacy distance easily revoked. 

She had a few moles decorating her purposely blushed cheeks. She had light, lifting eyebrows that complimented her defined cheekbones. Not to mention those eyes that reminded Marge of the creme-de-menthe they served at the beginning of the reception. Then there was her beautiful neck and perfectly chiselled collarbones decorated with a golden double-chained necklace. The lime corseted dress. It made so much sense now. It draws you in from afar, showcasing her crevasses—both slender and complex like a gourd vase. But when you're just inches away—you don't even have to be dangerously close to notice—you see the subtle artistic coordination that her champagne glass was merely an accessory to.

The blonde's lips curl into a crooked smile. "You heard correctly." Her voice was gentle, sultry with a tonic monotony enriched by an American twang that rocked each syllable.

"You're American?"

She nods once. "That I am."

Marge pushed her tongue against her gum, leaning her hand on the table so she could shift her weight into it. "Huh. What brings you to Normandy?"

"Paris, actually. A bit of a cliché, I know, but I've always wanted to see the Eiffel tower from my window. Own my own flower shop downstairs. It's the dream in my 'fairy-princess wedding book.'" If the smirk playing on her lips wasn't indicative enough of her teasing, then the wry tone really hammered it home. Marge couldn't say it was misplaced.

"Well, have you achieved the marriage part just yet?"

The blonde's eyes narrowed only slightly. "I'm not so sure 'achieved' is the word I'd use."

"Then, what word would you use?"

"Surrendered," she said without any hesitation. "But..." she rose her left hand—the other still holding the glass—and wriggled her bare fingers. "Not quite yet." She lowered her hand. "Not like you. You make a beautiful bride."

"Really?" Marge remarked sarcastically. "Even with this nightgown on?"

"It's a nightgown?"

"My mother-in-law seems to think so."

"Ah," she uttered, seeming to understand.

Marge eyed the silk that fell down to her own calves, trembling with the slightest movements. "Nine-hundred and fifteen euros can't buy a woman's approval, apparently." She rolled her eyes, settling them on nothing in particular. 

Her head had entirely shifted elsewhere for a long beat, before she finally caught herself lost in a brown study. 

She instinctively apologised. "Sorry, I didn't mean to dump on you."

"No, I'm glad you did."

She didn't have to turn her head very far to meet the blonde's eyes, but in that split second, it felt like a bridge between their souls was constructed, causing a warmth to brew so profusely inside Marge that it was a wonder it had yet to show on her face.

"I hear talking to a stranger makes the dumping a lot easier."

Amidst the silence that loomed over them, Marge wondered what it would mean to walk across that bridge. Did the bridge have a silver lining? How many steps would be too far, and what waits on the other side?