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She nodded, and I bent for her bag then waited as she wrapped herself in her coat, covering up that second skin of a dress. It wasn’t too terribly cold, though it was overcast with a slight breeze. I held the door open with one hand and offered my other arm. The corner of her lip twitched as she curled her hand around my elbow.
“This is the gentleman everyone is always talking about, huh?”
“You didn’t believe he existed?”
She shook her head as I opened the passenger side door of my car. I’d had it cleaned and washed yesterday. It was smelling extra nice, and I pointed it out to her. “Just for you.”
“I feel like that is some backhanded way of telling me I need to get my car detailed.”
“It absolutely is.”
“So, not one hundred percent a gentleman.”
I bent down to her level once she was seated. “I don’t think you’d like me to be one hundred percent gentleman.”
Her eyes, with those forever-long lashes, flicked up to mine. “No,” she said barely above a whisper, and I couldn’t help myself. I lifted her hand to my mouth, brushing a kiss across her knuckles then rotating it to scrape my teeth along her inner wrist.
Her lips parted on a quiet gasp, and I smiled into her palm before placing it back in her lap.
The car ride to my parents’ house was silent, save for her informing me her seat warmer was too hot. To which I replied, “I thought it would remind you of the temperature of your home.”
She sent me a narrow-eyed glance. “And yet you invited me with you. It’s almost like you want me to drag you to hell.”
I settled my elbow on the console between us. “In that dress, I’d follow you anywhere.”
Like the queen she was, she raised her brow, assessing me. Seeming to deem me worthy, she offered me a smile, though it bordered on waspish. “Careful. It almost sounds like you like me.”
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Taylor
I didn’t want to go in and meet the Hargrove family. It felt too…relationship-y, but Dean practically dragged me out of his car. As soon as he strode in the front door, a photographer knocked into him.
“Oops, sorry ’bout that,” they said, finding a better place to change out a lens.
Dean held his hand up. “No problem.”
“There you are!” a blond woman, who had to be Mrs. Hargrove, shrieked from her spot by the fireplace. “You were supposed to be here at 12:45.”
Dean held up his wrist, displaying his watch. “And it is exactly 12:45.”
“See,” I muttered, “being exactly on time is not an asset. It’s anxiety-inducing.”
“For you. Not for me.” He tossed me a cheeky grin as he took my hand to lead me farther into the house. My heels clicked on the wood floor until my feet met the plush carpet of the living room, where the bride and her bridesmaids were lined up.
“There he is!” a dark-haired one chirped, and they all swung to Dean, who waved.
“Everybody, this is Taylor. Taylor this is my mom, Gem, Sam, Bronte, and you know my sister.”
All the women smiled at me, though Mrs. Hargrove appeared a bit frazzled, and Dean walked over to her, sliding his hand along her shoulders. Her shoulder-length honey-colored hair was down and curled, accentuating the wide neckline of her sparkly blush gown.
“You look great, Mom,” he told her, and she immediately relaxed a little.
“Dad!” Laney yelled. “Come on!”
Mr. Hargrove, a stocky gray-haired man made his way downstairs, fiddling with his cuff links. His tuxedo was black, his boutonniere a sprig of green, his teeth immaculately white. No wonder this whole family could have been on a billboard. They were like a commercial for laundry detergent or toothpaste or some otheraftereffect of a product.
Laney was radiant in a lace and satin gown that was fitted to her hips and bust with a daring display of her generous cleavage. Her bridesmaids wore matching burgundy satin gowns. The shortest one with a pixie cut—Gem, I thought—appeared a little tipsy already. Sam, the one with rose-gold hair, bent down to adjust Laney’s shoe, while Bronte conversed with a second photographer.
