A wolf whistle sounds from behind me, where Story’s giving me her full approval as she zips up the back, then peers over my shoulder.
“Holy fuck. You look amazing. Miles will come in his trousers on sight.”
My laugh splutters, and air gets stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat. I manage to wheeze out, “Jesus,” before taking a long sip from the champagne glass Story’s holding out.
“It’s just . . .”Cough.“Business.”Cough.
Story’s brows slowly rise, and she gives me a short, sharp whack between the shoulder blades. “Then I’d say he’s getting his money’s worth.”
My spluttering turns into a giggle, because yeah, I feel good. After years spent in the saddle, it’s nice to see one benefit of the training I’ve put my body through. My hands smooth over the curve of my ass and the soft pink silk. I don’t think my body’s ever been encased in something so luxurious or expensive, if you don’t count the horse between my thighs every day.
Then I catch sight of the price.
“Seven thousand dollars!” I panic-shout. I’m not sober enough to be wearing this. I’m notanythingenough to be wearing this. Who cares what my tits and ass look like? “Get me out of this thing before I damage it.”
“Calm down, Miles is paying.”
I shake my head. “No. He can’t.”
“He certainly can, and I have no intention of arguing with him. He’s a pain in the arse most of the time, but during an argument, I could quite easily murder him.” She rolls her eyes.
I glance at myself again and whimper with indecision. I shouldn’t let him buy it because it sets the wrong precedent. Plus, when am I going to wear it again? But it only takes Story whispering, “Think of it as a signing bonus,” to sway me into taking it.
I stand still while she unzips me. “I take it you’re not a Miles fan.”
She peers at me in the mirror, her lips pursing and relaxing, while she considers her answer. “I’ve been in love with Hendricks for longer than I can remember . . . but with Miles, we’re like chalk and cheese. We make an effort because we both love his brother.”
I groan, “Great?—”
“But I can never fault Miles’s loyalty or dedication. He can be a selfish twat, but he always puts Hendricks before himself. He’s phenomenal at what he does, and if he’s asked you to come and join Foxleigh, then you must be phenomenal too.” Her soft brown eyes hold mine. “I know this is ‘business’”—she inexplicably air-quotes—“but I think you might be exactly what Miles needs, tough enough to take the shit he deals and give it right back.”
“Oh.” That’s all I can come up with as a response, and I silently hand over the jumpsuit to Story and tug on my jeans.
“Are you sure you don’t want your family there tomorrow? We can fly them here?—”
“No,” I bark, my body stiffening, while I attempt to pull my shirt back on. “Sorry, but no . . . they don’t care about what I do. They don’t need to know about this. It’ll be over before they even realize I’m out of the country.”
I expect Story to push further, based on my interactions with her so far—plus all the discarded wedding dresses—but she just nods. “Okay.”
Turning around, she grabs something from the box on the floor and holds it up to me.
It takes a second to register what it is. “Eww. No.”
Story laughs. “Exactly my opinion of veils. He’s already seen what you look like. Plus, knowing Miles, he’s going to be staring at your tits anyway.”
The shocked burst of laughter I let out blows away the tension from her previous questions and lasts until we leave the store, bags in hand.
After purchasing the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever owned, I’m now sitting at dinner in the most expensive restaurant in Aspen, wondering if this is what marriage to Miles Burlington will be like.
But aside from vetoing a million dresses and the mild levels of complaining, I’ve had fun today. Iamhaving fun, much to my surprise. I'd forgotten what it was like to be out and free and just have an evening of laughing that wasn’t in the cramped rooms above the stables, drinking beer with the other grooms.
“I never thought my brother would beat me down the aisle.”
I glance over at Hendricks, who’s grinning stupidly while staring at Story, making me feel like I’m on the outside of a joke.
“You and me both,” replies Miles, next to me, his arm draped across the back of my chair, where it’s been most of the evening.
He hasn’t touched me once, but no outside observer could question us not being together. We’re sitting close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him, his body warming the scent of leather and cedar I registered earlier, and it’s fucking with me. Every couple of minutes, my heartbeat flickers irrationally, driving me to distraction.
