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His eyes drop down to my toes and back up to rest on my face. “Hello.” He gives me a slow sexy smile. “You look”—he inhales sharply—“good.”
I try to hide my smile; he likes the dress. “Hello, Henley.” I grab my purse and shawl.
We get into his car, and he pulls out onto the road. “How was your week?” he asks.
Long.
“Good, thanks. How was yours?”
“Busy.”
I twist my fingers in my lap and stare out the window as we drive, and I go over the game plan for today.
Stay distant.
Whatever I do, remember that this is just a game to him.
I can’t be too chatty or friendly. I just have to let the day pan out.
We drive in silence for the rest of the way and finally pull into the parking lot.
The wedding is at a big country house estate. The gardens are beautiful, and I can see the white chairs lined up in rows near a floral arbor. That must be where the vows will be exchanged.
I internally count the ways that this could end badly. “This looks nice,” he says as he parks the car.
“It does.” My nerves are pumping, and suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a smart strategy.
He opens my car door and takes my hand and pulls me up into his arms, our faces only millimeters away from each other’s, and my breath catches.
His eyes darken and drop to my lips. “Today, you’re mine.”
I inch back from him. “Pretending to be yours.”
He smirks before licking his lips. And somehow, I think his conquering me has become the world’s greatest challenge. “Let’s go, sweetheart,” he says as he takes my hand in his. “Invitation?”
Sweetheart.
I dig in my bag and pass it to him. And he reads it as we walk. “Just so you know how to act today, I like my women submissive.”
Ha . . . you wish.
“Just so you know how to act today,” I reply as we walk across the parking lot, “I like my men submissive.”
His hand is big around mine, and it’s giving me all the flutters. There’s like this electrical current that’s running through his body and into mine.
Does he feel it too?
He doesn’t seem to. He’s as unaffected by me as you could possibly be.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
So fucking dumb, Juliet.
We walk through the giant archway doors of the atrium, and I look around in awe. “Wow.”
Everything on the round tables is white, with fancy silverware and candelabras and huge bouquets of white and cream flowers in big beautiful vases. Oversize chandeliers are hanging down in a dramatic fashion on silver chains.
Henley’s eyes roam over the space, and he smiles. “Very nice.”
