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Of course, she doesn’t call me Prince.
She likes to call me Silver Fox and pretend like I’m anything short of the love of her erratic, insane fucking life.
“Give me back my ankle,” she snarls as I stroke my fingers up and down her curvaceous calf.
“Take my last name, and I might,” I tease.
When I first proposed to Percy Owens, she told me no.
She told me no the second time, too.
In fact, when I really think about it, Percy has spent half of our time together swearing to hell and back that she’ll never be my wife—so I don’t know why I’m surprised that she’s having cold feet.
“I’d rather die,” she snarls back.
See? Even now, she wants to play pretend.
Like I said—I know Percy.
I know her insane little friends, too. Becky, Sammi, Mysti May—I know how they operate. I know their silly fucking games.
Lovely girls, really.
Terrible taste in men, though.
And when you get them near alcohol…
Well, let’s just say that when Percy Owens finally agreed to be my wife, I prepared myself for this shit.
See, I know how this evening’s supposed to go. Percy does, too, I think.
I’m supposed to fuck up horribly, probably in some way involving hookers and cocaine and a twenty-inch dildo up my ass.
And Percy’s supposed to get drunk, meet the man of her dreams, marry him, and not remember a lick of it in the morning.
Here’s the thing, though.
Hookers? Cocaine? Dildos?
I don’t have the time, the perversion, or the interest for any of that shit.
And here’s the other thing.
I’m a man who’s grown accustomed to getting what he wants.
So as Percy Owens walks out of the bar—and, as far as she’s concerned, right out of my life to boot—well, I just order a napkin and another round.
I’ll let her have her bachelorette party.
She can enjoy her wildchild friends and her drunken adventures.
If she wants a crazy night that she’ll never remember, it’s hers.
But if there’s one thing that she shouldn’t forget…it’s that this isn’t over.
The only man who’s waking up married to Percy Owens in the morning…
Is me.
