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To my right, a door opens. It’s the entry to one of the suite’s bedrooms. A woman wearing a sleek black dress and incredibly high heels steps into the room. Her hair is long and wildfire red and her eyes are shockingly blue. She looks right at Max, as if her eyes are drawn to the man.
Something sizzles between them, but he quickly says, “Eva, meet Mr. Conner and his fiancée.”
She walks confidently toward us and extends an elegant, jeweled hand to Carra. “The pleasure is mine. Eva Matthew. Please call me Eva.”
I shake her hand, then say, “Carra, Eva is your personal concierge. She’s also on my payroll, so she’s vetted. Eva’s arranged for a dress designer and a florist to come here to meet with you. She’s going to be helping with certain aspects of the wedding coordination.”
Carra looks like I just smacked her. She gives herself a shake. Smiles tightly at Eva and says, “Just pick whatever you want. I don’t want anything to do—” She abruptly stops herself, adjusts, and in a flat voice, she says, “I don’t really care.”
Eva just smiles patiently. “We’ll sort it all out. Come, let me show you some books the florist dropped off. If you prefer, I’ll make all the selections.”
Walking as if she’s got two logs for legs, Carra follows the woman out of the room.
Max gives me an empathetic look. “Friction, huh?”
“You didn’t send the image.”
He looks right at me and says, “I was busy.”
I growl. Yeah. He was busy putting me off. My nerves grate as I stride over to the bar and fill a glass with ice. Behind me, he says, “Keep your head together.”
I crack the lid on a bottle of tonic water. “It’s just water.”
Max probably expected me to be slamming liquor. But I’m not. I want my head sharp. Even if it hurts like fuck. I unclench my teeth so I can speak. “The image, Max.”
He motions toward the door. “Not in here.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Eva is like a tiny dragon. All fiery red hair and scorching confidence. She is tenacious. I’ve been with her for five minutes and I already see it.
Between her and Kieran, the odds of me running away from this wedding are ZERO.
I doubt she’ll let me out of sight long enough to pee for the next week without her making sure it’s perfectly arranged.
“So. These are the florist’s books. I requested a variety of styles for you to consider.”
She’s got them stacked by color of the spines. Anal retentive much? Yikes.
There’s an elegant pad of paper. A bedazzled writing pen. An assortment of delicate-looking appetizers and bottles of expensive sparkling water on ice too.
Can’t have the bride-to-be swooning from hunger or thirst while she’s planning, apparently.
“La Trèfle à Quatre Feuilles has a decadent website too. Their Pinterest will give you a seizure, though. It’s just too much perfection.” She slides a laptop in front of me.
I stare at it. “Uh…”
Slipping into the chair next to me, she crosses her legs just so. She’s noticeably precise—probably went to finishing school. No one sits like that. Especially not me. Back straight, high heel dangling, hands folded exactly so.
I feel like a toad compared to her. It’s a familiar feeling. Shauna and Sheila have made me feel like that my entire life.
She passes me a book, open to a lovely bouquet of blood-red roses. I close it. Spread my hands across it. I inhale. Exhale. “Can we talk?”
Eva stops instantly. Her hands in midair. Closes her mouth and looks at me like I’ve asked her to commit a mortal sin.
I look at her expectantly. I’m not budging on this. “It would make me feel better if we get some things out in the open.”
“Of course,” she replies with a very professional tone. So professional that I realize she’s probably faced down more than a few bridezillas. Dragon vs. Bridezilla. I wonder who wins?
