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I force myself to straighten and move my hand away. “Your breakfast is ready,” I say thickly and stand up, adjusting the uncomfortable bulge in my jeans. I need to cool off before I attack her right here and now, breakfast and wedding appointments be damned.
“Hmm.” She yawns again and sits up, holding up a blanket to cover those tempting breasts. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she focuses on the cup sitting on the nightstand. “Is that coffee?”
“You bet. And there’s breakfast in the kitchen—a vegetable quiche and home fries. You’ll need the fuel to last you through the day.”
She grins at me. “You’re amazing.”
My heart clenches—and my cock twitches again—as she jumps out of bed naked and beelines for the bathroom, apparently invigorated by the promise of caffeine and food. This is what I’ve wanted, what I’ve fought for all this time: Sara like this, playful and affectionate with me. We’ll never be able to erase the darkness of the past, but together, we can build a lighter future.
A future that still feels terrifyingly fragile for some reason.
I shove the thought away as soon as it surfaces. There’s no reason to assume that this kind of morning is temporary, that it’s anything other than the start of our new life.
Today is our wedding day, and I’m going to make sure it’s the best one ever.
It’s the least my ptichka deserves after everything I’ve done.
61
Sara
The invasion begins just as I finish gobbling down the breakfast Peter prepared for me. What feels like an army of stylists, makeup artists, and hairdressers descends on my tiny one-bedroom apartment, filling the living room with enough hair products, garment bags, and pots of eyeshadow for fifteen brides—or drag queens. Pam and Suzie, the women who measured me for a dress, are there, but so are two of their assistants and at least four hairdressers and makeup people. It’s hard to tell exactly how many with all of them coming in and out of the apartment to bring the ever-mushrooming amount of supplies.
Peter promptly abandons me to the torture, claiming that he needs to oversee the security arrangements and other logistics at Silver Lake. His own tux is getting delivered straight there, so I won’t even get a chance to see him in it until Danny brings me there later this afternoon.
“So not fair that all you have to do is put on a nice suit,” I complain, mock-pouting, and he grins, then drops a quick kiss on my lips, making my pulse jump.
“Behave or else,” he warns, silver eyes gleaming with amusement, and I pinch his side in revenge, making him laugh and kiss me again.
“Hair first,” a flamboyantly dressed young man announces as soon as Peter leaves, and I let myself be guided to the couch where an array of scary-looking styling tools are already spread out in a row.
My hair is still wet from my morning shower, so it’s first blow-dried into submission, then flat-ironed and curled. The updo apparently requires a perfectly smooth cuticle, which my wavy hair doesn’t naturally possess. While that’s happening, my nails are buffed, trimmed, and painted a soft pink shade, and then it’s time for my makeup.
Mom shows up just as the last of the mascara is applied to my lashes. She’s already coiffed to the max and dressed in a long peach dress that emphasizes her still-trim frame.
“Wow,” she breathes as I get up from the couch, and I grin, walking over to hug her.
“You look amazing, Mom.” I draw back to give her a thorough once-over. “I love this dress. When did you get it?”
“Your fiancé had it delivered last night. It’s Chanel. Can you believe it? I was just lamenting to your dad yesterday morning that I wouldn’t find anything decent on such short notice, and then bam, this dress arrives—and magically fits. Can you imagine? Your dad got a new tux too.” She sounds as excited as a teenager going to prom.
“Wow, yeah. That’s amazing.” Peter must’ve installed cameras and/or listening devices at my parents’ place again—an invasion of privacy we’ll need to discuss. For now, though, I’m grateful he was thoughtful enough to include my parents in his insanely thorough brand of wedding planning.
Mom loves to dress up and would’ve been gutted if she’d had to wear an older dress or something she didn’t find sufficiently special.
“How’s Dad?” I ask as Pam and Suzie shoo everyone else out of the apartment and make me strip down to my underwear to try on the dress.
“He’s good. Still processing all this, but—” Mom gasps as she sees the dress. “Wow, Sara. That’s gorgeous!”
“It’s Monique Lhuillier,” Pam proudly tells her as Suzie helps me put it on and fastens the buttons in the back. “All handmade lace—every inch of it.”
“Sara, that’s…” Mom blinks several times, then audibly sniffles. “Darling, you look so beautiful… simply out of this world, like some kind of fairy princess.”
