"Well." Darby walks around me slowly, then kneels to fluff the hem of my dress fussily. "It's not from Suzanne's Boudoir," she says, referring to the posh boutique where everyone shops in Candlewood, "but I think we've chosen something easily as nice."
Lacing and relacing my fingers through each other, I stare at the ground with an anxious little flutter in my tightening chest. "I don't know what I'm doing."
With a soft chuckle, my sister fishes the matching t-strap shoes we selected out of their box. "Of course, you do," she assures me. "It's mate vows, and they're Weres. Physical as they are, I'm certain it's a relatively new development that language of any sort is involved at all."
When she turns around, I arch my brows and catch my bottom lip with my teeth. For a few long seconds, she simply stares at me, then we both burst into giggles.
