He’s got me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
millefleuré
REY
I follow the other models through to the staff room in the back of Aiden’s new restaurant, Millefleuré. I’ve already sent my check-in selfie to Kirsten and am ready for three hours of sparking joy. The costumes hang on a rack; we’ll all be flowers to go with the theme of the restaurant. I’m starting to see how the events have been connected, and I hope we get to try some of the food, because what Mark and I had at the Mesmeric Mystique wasdivine.
“Welcome everyone,” Vic says. I recognise him from The Orion gig, he must be a regular staff of Aiden’s. “You’ve received the brief, but the quick rundown of the night is: you are live art and social lubricants tonight. Start out front, and in your costumes, you’ll be taking the interior of Millefleuré outside with you and making it come to life.” He waves his hands dramatically, showing the props we’ll be using.
It’s going to be magnificent.
“A third of you will be stationed with champagne at the entrance, but the rest are out there on Berkeley Square as living flowers. There’ll be an acoustic performance by Riley Miles.” A smattering of ‘oh my god’s breaks out among thegroup of twenty or so. Riley’s huge. The security at this event must be through the roof to keep her safe.
“Alright, keep your hair on,” Vic adds with a cheeky grin. “Aiden’s chosen not to make the opening a sit-down dinner, so your focus is on moving people around, using your expertise to break up groups, make sure people mingle and see the entire space, and try all the food. Let’s liven this event up—keep it moving and make it perfect.”
My favourite kind of event.
I love it!
And this time, the VVIPs won’t be in costumes, so I can see who they are. I’m so happy I get to be a part of this.
But there’s an uncomfortable feeling in me about seeing Mark out there when I’m like this. It’ll be right in our faces that we’re on different levels. The way he asked me about the job last night…
I know he doesn’t understand.
I’ll try not to focus on that. Everything else with Mark is dreamlike.
This morning, all day, really, was amazing. After last night, I came home with him again. I slept in while he rowed with Aiden, but this time I ended up sleeping through breakfast. He said he’d tried to wake me up, but I was dead to the world. I guess that’s what a night of multiple orgasms and intense emotions does to you.
The flower costumes come on, and body paint is applied, and we’re led through the restaurant to get ready out front before the first guests arrive.
I gasp at the beautiful sight.
The ceiling is covered with a thick canopy of multicoloured flowers and greenery. It looks intentionally wild. There are warm, twinkling fairy lights tucked in between the flowers, giving it a magical firefly vibe. The flowers and green vines climb down the walls, but it tapers off, and behindit, the walls are a rustic simple style, like the outside of a sandstone building. The restaurant itself is on the smaller side, maybe fifty tables? But I know from our brief that there’s a wine bar upstairs through a near-invisible door somewhere along the back wall, and there’s a basement that turns into a nightclub.
Of course he’s dug out a basement.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a secret tunnel that goes all the way to The Orion on the other side of the square.
The first hour of the gig, I’m on edge, trying to enjoy it—because that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?—while constantly keeping an eye out for the tall, broad sculpted shape that I know will take my breath away. It’s a black-tie event, and I’ve seen the man in various attires so far, but never in a tuxedo.
I feel him approaching before I see him.
The man radiates a kind of heat I’m overly sensitive to. I’m so attuned to him, I turn to face him before he reaches me. And as I thought, Mark Becker in a tuxedo is a jaw-dropping sight.
As extraordinary as his shoulders and arms are in the tailored suit, my focus is on his face.
His expression is serious. Jaw muscles are working hard. And his darkened eyes roam over me, from my high heels, up my bare, painted legs, lingering at the hem of my barely-there skirt, and travelling up past the green sparkling top and to my painted face. My hair is tucked away into a large yellow high-fashion buttercup hat.
I grin at him when his eyes meet mine, and the muscles in his jaw relax into a soft smile. I can’t believe I’m the one who’s going to take that tux off him tonight.
I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Not only do I know what he looks like under the suit, but I’m one of the few people who is intimately familiar with the sound of his laugh. The kind of laugh that comes from the belly and is entirely genuine.
Images of us from earlier today fill my mind. I played my ‘happy playlist’ and jumped around his massive living room while he was working in the office, and he came in, leaned against the door frame and just looked at me. I thought he came to tell me to turn the music down and behave like a normal adult, but he danced with me (as in, he held my hand and twirled me around, laughing at my attempts to break free from his grip, which is more than good enough dancing effort for me).
