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I’m about to reply when a deep voice cuts through the silence of the house.
“Princess?”
I quickly turn off the phone and slide it into my bag. I don’t want Levi to see the wedding dress yet, no matter how much he pestered me.
It’s not because of that stupid superstition. It’s about something I’ve seen in Mrs Hudson’s collection.
She has a photo album where she captures shots of the grooms when the brides walks towards them. Their expressions are often filled with awe, love, and utter happiness.
I want to see that look on Levi’s face on the wedding day. Hell, this might be the only reason why I’m willingly continuing this entire planning nightmare.
That’s why he needs to see the dress for the first time next week.
I drop my backpack on the leather sofa and abandon the brochures on the counter.
“Where are you?” I ask, tiptoeing down the hallway.
Although we’ve been practically living together for the past year or so, I’ve been spending more time with Dad lately. It’s like I’m telling him goodbye before I move out for good.
Of course, Levi hasn’t been thrilled about that idea. He keeps sending me texts about his empty bed, empty heart, and empty soul.
I’d laugh so hard at those.
Today, I decided to stay the night for the last time until the wedding.
“In here,” he calls, the sound coming from the last room down the hall.
The room Levi has turned into my art studio as soon as he got the flat. Actually, the first thing he chose in this house is the location of my art studio.
But what is he doing there now?
Oh, gosh. Please don’t tell me he saw the painting. He’s not supposed to lay eyes on it until the wedding night.
It’s supposed to be a gift.
I jog down the hall and push the door open. My feet come to a screeching halt as soon as I’m inside.
Levi lies on the sofa, cradling his head. His massive body dwarfs the space.
Oh, and he’s naked.
Completely fucking naked.
For a moment, I’m speechless. My greedy eyes take in his sculpted abs, his muscular thighs, and that delicious V that leads to his semi-erect cock.
I shake myself out of my stupor and focus on his face; his tousled blond hair, his arrogant smirk, and his pale blue eyes.
Damn those blue, blue eyes.
“What are you doing?” I meant to interrogate him, but it comes out in a whisper, barely audible.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He grins, eyes shining. “I’m modelling for you.”
“Modelling for me?”
“I know you’ve been painting me, and taking peeks at my body while you think I’m asleep.”
I gasp. “You saw the painting?”
