It was ridiculous.

Even in her dream, she realized that.

James Elliott was too proud, too stubborn and too independent to ever admit he missed anyone. But it was a lovely dream, bittersweet and achingly real.

Then she woke up once again, not twenty minutes later, in her bed, yet still very much inside her very own nightmare as fashion runway roadkill.

James fought the impulse all day, but nightfall found him standing on the corner across the street from the big, old Victorian near Prospect Park in Brooklyn that Chloe shared with her various relatives, who all worked for her in the first-floor showroom.

He stared up at the window of the small attic she’d turned into a tiny apartment for herself, where she had some measure of privacy. This after fighting with himself all day about coming anywhere near here.

It felt weirdly stalkerish to be there, just looking up at her window, and he was a man who did not stalk women. He just needed to know she was okay.

Which he couldn’t tell from simply staring at her house.

Still, he felt a little better, just being this close to her.

He waited until the last light went out in her little attic, saw the slightest impression of her, he thought, ghostlike against the sheer curtains, as she walked across the room. He imagined her climbing into bed, her toes cold, letting her warm them on his, his hands hot against her cool, pale skin, tangling in her glorious hair.

So many nights they’d spent that way, together in that room.

He couldn’t have her back, he told himself.

He’d made her crazy, and she’d done the same to him. He was as logical a man as there was on earth, and he knew without a doubt that no one needed to be hurt like that a second time.

So once the light was out, and he knew she was safe in her bed, at least for the night, he turned around and went home, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t be back.

The next morning, James faced the newsstand, hoping to see the usual mix of tabloid headlines screaming about drunken celebrities, corrupt politicians, alien sightings and baseball players on steroids.

No such luck.

That crazy model, Eloise, was back on the covers, in handcuffs, still wearing the wedding dress, her hair going every which way, mascara-streaked tears on her cheek, maybe a few drops of blood on the gown? The bridezilla label had been picked up by every tabloid he saw, now in this humongous font with letters the color of blood.

James winced as he stood there. Bridezilla? Had someone climbed a skyscraper in a bloody wedding gown and swatted at things? He didn’t think so.

What about Chloe? He scanned the news. Supposedly in a fit of rage, she’d destroyed every gown in her showroom with a huge pair of scissors. No way James believed that. She loved the clothes she made too much to ever destroy them, and Chloe didn’t do fits of rage. She just didn’t.

James got to the front of the line to hand over his money for his Wall Street Journal, and Vince said, “Your girl is back.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“One of my customers just told me about this great video of the whole runway brawl,” Vince confided. “YouTube, that thing the kids like on the computer? Type in ‘Runway Brawl,’ and it’s supposed to come right up.”

James nodded. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. “I’ll do that, Vince.”

When he got to the office, he glared at Marcy, then gave a curt nod for her to follow him into his office. “People are online watching a video of the brawl at Chloe’s show?”

“More than a hundred thousand people so far,” Marcy said.

James grimaced. A hundred thousand? “Someone’s keeping a count?”

“Of course. At the rate the video’s being downloaded, it could go viral at any time.”

Which would be bad for Chloe. “We need to stop that from happening.”

“You can’t stop it. It’s already out there. It has a life of its own now.”

“There has to be a way,” he argued.

Marcy shrugged. “Maybe if Angelina Jolie actually left Brad Pitt or something equally earth-shattering.”

James sighed. “I guess we can’t make that happen.”

“I can’t. Unless you know how to find them, and you want to make a play for Angelina. I guess if you wanted me to do my best to seduce Brad … I mean, if you ordered me to, I’d have to do it for you.”

James considered. “You’re telling me you’d seduce Brad Pitt for me?”

“I’m a team player, sir,” she claimed.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re willing, Marcy, if it ever comes to that.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcy made a face. “I’m afraid there’s something else you need to know. Adam Landrey called. He said to tell you Chloe’s company needs another infusion of cash.”

James tried not to show anything in his face. “How much?”

“Six figures, at least.” Marcy clearly disapproved. “You broke up with the woman, sold your interest to your friend, then guaranteed he wouldn’t lose any money on the deal? You guaranteed his losses?”

“What if I did?” James argued.

“The two of you broke up!” Marcy repeated.

“I remember. Very well, thank you.” He glared at her. “Your point?”

“Are you going to treat me this well if I leave you?” Marcy asked. “Because I’ve never had a guy be that nice to me after I left him.”

“Leave me now, Marcy, or you might find out how badly I’ll treat you.”

She made a face, but left his office, closing the door behind her.

James went for the computer, found the video as easily as Vince said he would. It was like rubbernecking a particularly brutal car accident, except this accident involved someone he knew. Poor Chloe.

He picked up the phone to call Adam. When James and Chloe had broken up, she’d wanted him out, as an investor, immediately, and people weren’t lining up to take a risk in the fashion industry. James felt bad about the way things ended between them. He felt guilty and couldn’t bear to see her lose her design business, too. The only way he could get someone to take over his investment was to guarantee any losses the new investor might suffer.

Something Chloe would definitely not be happy about, even now, if she found out. It made James sound like some kind of controlling, overbearing, interfering man—all of which she’d accused him of being, when all he’d been trying to do was help. He was, after all, a brilliant businessman. What kind of a fiancé would he be if he didn’t help her? Chloe was brilliant herself, but creatively, fashionably. She didn’t have a businesslike bone in her body.

But all that was old news. Chloe should definitely be old news to him.

As long as nothing else really bad happened, she would be.

The Bride Blog: News of all things bridal.

Wedding Dress Designer Chloe’s Shocking Video Confession: She Never Really Believed in Love.

After three failed engagements, did she put a secret curse on all her gowns? So that no one else gets a happily-ever-after, either?

The question on the minds of brides-to-be everywhere: How could anyone marry in a Chloe gown and ever think their love will last?

Word is that brides are storming Chloe’s showroom in Brooklyn, demanding to return their dresses and to get their money back, much like the old-fashioned run on a failing bank.

How long can the House of Chloe hold out?

Time will tell, dear brides.

Time will tell.

Addie was scared to go downstairs that morning. They hadn’t actually had hordes of angry brides demanding refunds so far, but they’d had enough to scare Addie. What would they find today, after the latest Bride Blog piece, and a new video of Chloe, drunk in the bar the night of the bridal brawl, talking about her diastrous three engagements and claiming she never believed in love? Chloe even described herself as “cursed in love” in the new video. So Addie was scared to even look outside.