“Sam, they already saw you sprint in a towel. The bar’s low.” I glare up at him. He just laughs. He steers me to the closet, opens the door, and immediately ignores every piece of clothing that is remotely practical. “Wear this.”
“That’s lingerie.”
“I know,” He said with a smirk on his face. “Theodore.”
“Okay, fine.” He grabs a dress, one he likes way too much, and hands it to me with that innocent look that should be illegal. “This one.” I step into the dress, but my fingers are still shaky, and I fumble trying to pull the zipper up. “Ugh. I can’t?—”
“Come here.” His voice goes soft. He turns me around, sliding the zipper up agonizingly slow, fingertips tracing my spine. He knows exactly what he’s doing. When he finishes, he rests his hands on my hips, squeezing once. “Perfect.” I slap his hand away when he smacks my ass.
“Behave.” Theo steps in and straightens the hem of my dress. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly celebrated.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. Rose asks, “So… getting dressed took a while, huh?” Theo answers before I can lie. “She needed assistance.” Naomi cackles while Harper covers her face.
Elena whispers, “We knew it.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Rose says, almost walking out the door already. “She’s ours for the night.” Theo narrows his eyes at her. “Bring her back in one piece.”
“No promises,” Elena says. Naomi grabs the keys off my hook like she owns the place. “Let’s go, Sam. If we miss the reservation, you’re paying the fee.”
Rose screeches, “SHOTGUN SITTING NEXT TO THE BRIDE.” I turn to Theo, pouting shamelessly. “Save me, now.”
Rose yells, “I said we were leaving, not filming softporn.”
Elena yells back, “Let them kiss, damn—”, I can hear Harper giving orders, “On a clock, people.” Theo breaks away last, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Have fun,” he murmurs. “I’ll try not to get arrested,” I whisper back.
“Please don’t,” Naomi mutters. “I need a break from paperwork for a night.” I grab my purse, my dignity,barely, and my four personal disasters disguised as friends. As we step into the hallway, Rose links her arm through mine.
“Let’s go celebrate the fact that you’re getting married to 1A, the hottest billionaire boss you’ve ever had.”
“Christ,” I mutter, but my cheeks are hurting from smiling. Harper presses the elevator button. “Ladies, we have one mission tonight.”
We all look at her in surprise, mostly. She smirks. “Get the fiancée drunk enough to let us plan the wedding.” I groan. “I hate all of you.” They all cheer. The elevator doors open, and just as we step inside, Naomi pats my shoulder. “Relax. We’ll be gentle.”
No, they won’t. And honestly? I can’t wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
theo
After the girlsstole my fiancée, I took a long, well-deserved shower, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and I sat at my desk like an abandoned man, staring at the prenup I’d already marked to hell.
Romantic, I know.
It’s insane that the very first thing people offer when you say, “Hey, I might propose,” is a stack of paperwork thicker than a jet engine manual. Nobody hands you champagne. Nobody congratulates you on finding the one person who makes your blood pressure spike in the best and worst ways. No. They say, “Do you want your prenup in PDF or Docx?”
She’s going to hate this. Sam’s the kind of woman who breaks out in stress hives if she needs to sign five documents in a row. But this is the world we operate in.
And I’d rather she complain about it now than feel unprotected later.
People get prenups when they have nothing. When the only thing they’re dividing is who gets the futon and who gets the cat. But Sam? She has money. Whether she likes it or not. Whether she wants it or not. And she could have even more if she ever worked things out with her father… which she won’t. But, I know better than to bet against her stubbornness morphing into a long-term plan at twenty-six.
She has a trust fund she refused to touch when she turned twenty-one. She looked at all that money and said, essentially, “No thanks, I’d rather work”, which is admirable, but she’s still young, and she might change her mind in the long run, and I need to protect her even from the parts of herself she hasn’t figured out yet.
My money? I don’t care. She could take every account I have, and it’d be worth it if she still looked at me the way she did the morning after I proposed— sleepy and smug like she owned me. Which she does.
But being a billionaire means you use your damn brain. And this? This is smart.
Annoying, but smart.
