Behind them trailed two additional bodyguards acting as the caboose of their frenzied escape train.
Their gaggle piled into an elevator like subway commuters during rush hour. No elbow room. No one making eye contact. Not a shared moment of humanity between a single person as they all struggled to figure out what had just happened.
Not to mention Jules and her trusty band of bridesmaids wore shoes that were designed for runways and photoshoots, not sprinting from the altar. They were catching their breath while nursing fresh blisters.
The elevator doors pinged open, and off they went again, Rhys, bodyguard to the rich and famous, leading the charge, and before she could catch her breath, they swarmed into the bridal suite, which was strewn with clothes and makeup and leftover champagne glasses.
Jules launched her shoes across the suite. The heels bounced off the delicate white floral wallpaper with thuds as the sweet feeling of relief rolled over her bare feet. Ditching those shoes was as close as she’d get to an orgasm any time soon. That was a pretty terrible realization on your wedding day.
Yasmin unceremoniously unpinned the veil, snagging a few blonde hairs still attached to Jules’s head. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Jules waved the apology away. Her scalp had survived far worse from well-meaning hair stylists. The iron grip of the wedding dress was about to kill her. Jules twisted and reached for the back but couldn’t find the hidden zipper. “Unzip me?”
The dress had to go. If there hadn’t been a blood oath involved, she’d cut the thing from her torso. Anything to take a deep-enough breath and reactivate her brain. Because the neuro connections and synapses had failed to figure out what to do or say or feel.
She was numb. Unmarried and utterly numb.
Did her stalker know what had happened yet? He had likely known about Mason and Olivia before Jules. She didn’t know what to do with that—probably because she still couldn’t take a deep breath. “A little help, please?” She eyed Rhys. “Do you have a knife?”
“No weapons needed.” Yasmin untied the corset ribbon and yanked the zipper down.
Relief rolled through Jules again. A groaning, moaning whimper of pleasure slipped past her lips as the dress piled onto the carpet, circling her in a mountain of silk and tulle. She could breathe again.
Her eyes opened to Rhys, former FBI turned bodyguard. Oh, the things he’d seen over the years. Everyone moved around them, but he was like a stone. Nothing bothered him. Nothing caught his attention. Nothing, not even a half-dressed, moaning woman, distracted his focus. Not for the first time, she thought he could be cast as a hunky leading man. She might have made the suggestion except he had made it clear that Hollywood disgusted him.
That was fine. He was likely a better protector than an actor.
Casting Rhys in a movie wasn’t where her head should be.
Aaliyah slipped the hotel robe onto Jules’s shoulders and clipped her thoughts on costarring with Rhys.
Abigail picked up the hotel phone on the credenza and kicked off her shoes. Her toes wriggled like Jules’s had. “Room service.”
“I’m not hungry,” Jules said.
“Do you have ice cream? Good. Chocolate and vanilla bean. That too. Every topping. What else comes with the sundaes? Great idea. Yup. Those too. Do you have toffee chips? Perfect. That’ll work. We’ll pay whatever it takes for someone to literally run it up here.” She winked at Jules as though everything would be fine so long as they binged on enough calories. “Yes. Literally sprint. Send the fastest person you’ve got.”
“Doing okay, honey?” Aaliyah asked.
Jules should be far more upset than she was.
Tabitha snorted. “Of course she’s not okay.”
Tabitha didn’t know how to be kind, and if she weren’t family—a fact she tossed around to anyone who would listen—then Jules would have disentangled herself from her cousin years ago. They weren’t even real cousins. Second cousins by marriage and divorce and some other complicated familial connections that her mother accepted as gospel and Tabitha never let her ignore. Jules ignored her now. “Are there any water bottles left in the mini fridge?”
“I drank the last one before we went downstairs,” Tabitha said.
Of course she had. Jules searched for something to drink and caught Abigail’s irritation with Tabitha growing. “No problem. It’s fine.”
Abigail glared. “I’ll call room service back and ask.”
“They’re probably already sprinting up here. Don’t worry about it.” There was enough going on that the Lowry sisters didn’t need to volley drama back and forth with Tabitha.
Rhys snagged a champagne flute from the wet bar, semiwashed it in the sink, and refilled it with tap water.
Tabitha wrinkled her nose as he offered it to Jules. “That’s gross.”
“Get over yourself, Tabby,” Abigail muttered.
