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44
Sky
The usually manicuredand empty grounds of the Malibu mansion are covered with a marquee the size of a house stretching across the lawn. The white canvas monstrosity blocks the usual views of the ocean, but the guests will enjoy the spectacular and exclusive vistas.
A red carpet extends from the steps outside the front of the white-painted house, along several hundred metres toward the carefully arranged and dressed rows of chairs. A gazebo decorated in pink roses is the final destination at the end of the carpet.
Dressing in the guest room, I watch the army of wedding creators assemble the spectacle before me.
Honey’s voice shrieks somewhere down the hallway and I cringe. All that woman has done today is scream at people. I happened to be with Honey when the wrong colour ribbon adorned the placements for the wedding tables, sending a terrified and apologetic man scurrying away to replace his hideous mistake.
Talk about Bridezilla.
Honey arranged hair and make-up artists for all the guests, but I told mine I wasn’t interested. Thank god that Honey aren’t friendly enough for her to invite me to be a bridesmaid—the perfection required is impossible. I was instructed what colour to wear as I apparently need to ensure I’m co-ordinated in the official photographs. Ones that, unfortunately, I must feature in due to my engagement to Dylan Morgan.
Following our engagement, persuading Dylan to keep the news quiet failed. After an argument about the amount of press he brought to the door, I accepted we had to ride the crazy train after the announcement. Dylan reluctantly retreated to his house in LA while I stayed in Bristol a few more days, putting the finishing touches to leaving the grotty flat behind forever.
Leaving when Tara was still very sick worried me, but as if the stars were aligning, she improved in the week I spent in Bristol alone and I finally spoke to her before I left. Dylan promised he’ll pay for me to fly straight back if her condition worsens. Optimistic that she won’t, I step further away from my old life and into Dylan’s and my new one.
The planned Dylan and Sky World Tour is on pause until after Honey and Liam’s wedding. We haven’t made a decision on our wedding date yet, and we’ve lived like newlyweds the last two months in LA, bunkered down in his house as if we’re on a perpetual holiday. In the star struck state, going out is slightly easier, although we still find ourselves on entertainment TV the day after each trip. Some days we feed them false stories to see how quickly they track around the internet. Then we giggle and plan the next trick. The Sky I am when I’m with Dylan is free, and every day I appreciate how lucky I am to live this life with him. Not only because of the luxury but because he’s Dylan—the star to my sky.
The California sun is sticky and after a couple of months in LA with Dylan, I’m craving the cool English spring. Although, I’d probably change my mind the moment my feet touched cold English soil.
I step outside the room, carrying my too-high heels and smoothing down the buttermilk yellow dress. I still grit my teeth when expense is thrown in my direction, but sometimes the right opportunity comes along for a girl to play dress up. This dress was designed for and cut to suit me, pulled in at the waist and the soft silk floating to skim my knees. The dress is truly beautiful, cut the exact length to suit my legs, and a neckline revealing just enough but not too much of my décolletage—apparently that’s what I call my cleavage in Honey’s circle.
Dylan bought me a simple necklace with a diamond to match the gorgeous ring he gave me—the ring to confirm my world will never go back to ordinary, and that broke a million girls’ hearts.
A screeching Honey trails down the hallway toward me. She’s dressed in a pink satin robe, and without her make-up and hair extensions, she looks ten years younger and ordinary. She stops dead as she casts a gaze at my ensemble.
“I said yellow,” she snaps.
“This is yellow.”
“It’s fucking cream. Why did you ignore me? It’s bad enough you got engaged to Dylan, and now everybody wants to know about your wedding instead.” I blink at her as she continues her scrutiny. “Did Marsha do your make-up? Obviously not,” she huffs. “Make sure you stand behind someone in the photos.”
Sweeping past me, Honey yells for Marsha while I head for the door. What if Honey sends Marsha after me and I’m forcibly covered in make-up?
The back of the property faces away from today’s festivities, and the long glass doors open onto an infinity pool. Dylan stands outside, talking to Jem. I’m surprised to see Jem, as he’s been in rehab for a few weeks. Coming to a wedding with enough alcohol to drown in will be a test of anyone’s attempt to stay dry, let alone a recovering addict.
Still carrying my shoes, I tread across the limestone pavers toward them. Dylan in a suit. I sigh inwardly, remembering the last time I saw him in a suit—the first night he showed me the meaning of awesome sex, and the day I realised I could never be without him.
“Are you ready?” I ask, sliding a hand along his firm backside.
He catches my hand and laces his fingers through. “Yeah. Just chatting to Jem about… something.”
Hackles of suspicion rise and I study Jem, whose eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. “Hey, summer Sky.”
“Hi, Jem. How’re you doing?”
“Yeah.” He shifts his weight to the other foot. “Congratulations, by the way. Nice rock.”
I curl my hand round the ring as if each time I do, I’m holding Dylan’s heart. “Thanks.”
“I bet Honey was pissed off when she found out,” he says to Dylan. “I see her wedding plans went full steam ahead once she realised she had no chance with you?”
Is Jem stirring?
“There was never a chance, Jem.”
