“No other women, for one.” I shrug, my brain whirling for ideas about what couples behave like.
It’s both immensely pathetic and somewhat humiliating that I don’t actually know. I think about my mom and dad. . .
“Where are we going to live?” I blurt.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he looks at me curiously. There’s definitely amusement there, like I’m the only one taking this seriously.
“Well. . . we’ll live in my cottage, in Valentine Nook. It’s close to Foxleigh.”
“This arrangement doesn’t include sex. . .”
God, what the hell is wrong with me? Why did I have to bring up sex, because now that’s all I’m thinking about. Sex and him. Having sex with him. My cheeks tingle, and it takes all my concentration to push down the flush creeping over them.
“I thought we’d already established that.” He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to catch on. My guess is he’s referring to me kicking McTavish in the balls. Good, then he knows what I’m capable of. “You’ll have your own room, don’t worry. Strictly marriage on paper only. ..Any other concerns you’d like to raise?”
I shrug and try to swallow my embarrassment. “I dunno, are your parents still married? How does your dad behave?”
Sadness flashes behind his eyes, and when he answers, his tone is flat. “He doesn't. He died.”
I feel like a total asshole. “I'm so sorry . . .” I say, but he brushes me off with a flick of his hands.
“It was a long time ago, but whatever, I got it. Behave like a real husband.” He ticks the air and narrows his eyes. “Which means you must behave like a real wife. Try to keep the flinching to a minimum.”
Sounds reasonable. “Fine.”
I pull my hand out, and he takes it, bringing it down in a firm shake. Why does it somehow feel like I’ve made a deal with the devil?
CHAPTER 6
Ruby
With each dress I’m made to try on, I almost back out of this wedding a thousand times.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me anything about Miles . . .” muses Story, as she puts another floofy, frilly dress I vetoed back on the hanger.
I’m tempted to see how far I can push until she snaps, but she just keeps producing them, like a wedding dress magician. Endlessly patient.
Her sentence hangs in the air, and it occurs to me that’s why she hasn’t given up yet . . . because she wants the gossip.
I shrug. “What’s there to ask?”
“What isn’t there to ask?” she shoots back and hands another thing over for me to try on.
Taking the hanger, I assess the contents. “This isn’t a dress.”
“No, you don’t seem to like dresses,” she deadpans.
I stifle a laugh. It's not that I'mnota dress person. I’m just so used to living in T-shirts and tight pants that having air between my thighs feels . . . drafty.
“It’s not white.”
Story shakes her head. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”
We have the entire changing room to ourselves. In fact, we have the entire dress store to ourselves. I’m not sure what kind of pull Story has in Aspen, but we’ve been in here for hours, and all the assistants have done is bring us champagne and all the dresses Story’s asked for.
It was fifty dresses ago that I stopped walking into one of the cubicles. I’ve spent most of the day in my panties.
Slipping the jumpsuit off the hanger, I pull it on, one foot at a time. The pale pink silk glides up my legs, hugging my hips and ass, but it’s my tits I’m most proud of. They’re usually squashed down with a sports bra, but now . . . I could be onSports Illustrated. Hugged together in the low-cut front and framed in the tiniest frill of pink silk . . . wow-wee.
