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“No, no. Not that. Georgie.”
His lips quirk up, but that’s the only response I get. Jerk.
“And why didn’t we move our suite? I don’t want to be next to Ezra.”
“I can keep a better, closer eye on him if he’s in the next room. I like having access should I need it. My guess is that despite the fact that he works for a cyber security company, he’ll use the open access network of the hotel. Therefore, I can get his laptop or any other device in addition to his phone, and sometimes proximity helps with that.”
Fine. Whatever. I don’t argue it.
My phone has been vibrating like it’s trying to make my purse orgasm, but for now, I’m ignoring it and Ezra. I’ll have to deal with him soon enough.
Lenox and I head toward the Forum shopping area of Caesars all the while he’s holding my hand, fiddling with the ring on my finger. He’s strolling casually, his chin high, eyes scanning, completely unaffected. As if this is the most natural thing in the world, and this is how we always are with each other when I haven’t actually seen him in six years before last night.
People stare at him as we pass, doing double takes and watching him with unabashed interest. And not because he’s Lenox Moore, former Central Square bandmate. I doubt most people recognize him as that since he always went out of his way to avoid the limelight. I think it’s him, the man. His size and gorgeous face and the visible tattoos on his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and the way he radiates complete control and dominance over everything, every space he enters, even here in Las Vegas.
He must sense me staring because he quirks his head down, lingers for a beat, and then continues straight ahead, leading me deeper into the shopping area that is cool and dark, meant to look like Rome at night on a piazza.
We stop in the middle of an open area, a circle of designer shops surrounding us on the periphery, and he pans his hand around us as if asking where I want to go first.
“You’re not coming with me,” I tell him, and his chin dips down, his eyebrow raised questioningly. “It’s bad luck.”
A bemused sort of chuckle hits his full lips.
I roll up on the balls of my feet, bouncing twice, and then go digging for my ChapStick, smearing the vanilla-flavored wax on my lips. “Whether it’s real or not, I no longer like to tempt the devil unless I have to. Don’t let my red hair deceive you.”
He shrugs, leans down, plants a chaste kiss on my cheek, and walks off, leaving me here staring after him. Fucker plays the part of fake fiancé way better than I do. I shake that off and head into Valentino, already knowing I’ll find something perfect in there, and I’m not wrong.
“May I help you?” the sales associate asks.
“I’m marrying the man who broke my heart six years ago in a little over two hours, and I need to look and feel amazing for it.”
He smiles eagerly at me. “Oh girl, I’ve got just the thing for you. And for him.”
He leads me directly to a stunning white crepe couture dress with cute little bow accents and a high neckline that make it appear demure and even a little playful, but the way it hugs my frame and cuts off just around mid-thigh adds a sexier, more adult element.
Ricardo also wisely insists I pair it with baby blue satin pumps—for my something blue—lined with gold studs that add some edginess. Then he takes me by the hand down the hall to a small shop I would have missed entirely and tells Fabrizio to give me the works, because it’s my wedding day.
The works turns out to be having my hair twisted into an elaborate braided updo that still manages to softly frame my face and makeup that makes me look like a shimmery angel, with the exception of my vamp-red lips—my calling card and armor. I decline the waxing, informing him that I’ve had so many lasers on my vagina nothing will ever grow down there again, and then Fabi—as he insists I call him—walks me down to Agent Provocateur.
Now I know I’m in trouble.
My new bestie, Cathy, hands me a much-needed glass of champagne, and by the time I leave the store I’m wearing the sexiest thong and bra I’ve ever worn, along with a white lace garter she insisted I get. It doesn’t matter that my groom will never see them. Somehow, they feel like sexy weapons. Like a confidence boost I didn’t realize I needed.
Finding my way back to where we started, I text Lenox, wondering if he’ll be pissed that I took so long. Time sort of got away from me. My phone immediately vibrates in my hand.
Lenox: Turn around.
For unknown reasons, my stomach lifts and nerves skitter under my skin as I slowly turn. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what he thinks about my hair, makeup, or dress. I bought them for me. Because I wanted to feel and look beautiful. Because after the wedding, we’re immediately going to the cocktail hour, and that will be trial by fire, and I wanted to feel equipped to handle and dominate any situation.
That’s what the right clothes and makeup do for me. I don’t even care if that makes me shallow because show me a woman who doesn’t feel more confident when she feels beautiful and sexy, even if all women are always beautiful and sexy. Something about dressing up changes the game.
But when my gaze slowly drags up his body, starting at his new black boots, trailing along his black slacks, up to his black button-down dress shirt and no tie, I realize I hadn’t expected him to go shopping or dress up for the occasion. Speaking of tempting the devil, the sight of him like this—looking so fucking hot and sinister and sexy—slams into me with more force than I was prepared for.
His longer on top blonde hair is brushed back from his face, showing off the vibrant color of his sky-blue eyes and the strong line of his stubbled jaw and dimpled chin. His clothes fit to perfection, expensive fabrics hinting at the taut lines and ridges of muscle beneath. For a moment, all we do is stare at each other from about ten feet away, hordes of people coming and going all around, but it’s as if the world around us is paused, muted, nonexistent.
My skin prickles at his slow, sweeping drags of me. At the way he takes in every line and inch I’m comprised of as if he refuses to be rushed or miss discovering even the smallest piece of me. He snags on the bows at the bottom of the skirt and gives the barest hint of a smile as if he likes the flirty challenge of unwrapping me.
His thumb meets his mouth, dragging along his bottom lip, and I catch sight of a silver cufflink with a pearl accent—white—the only thing on him that could mildly suggest he’s ready for a wedding.
