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Yesterday morning, before we left to come to New Orleans, I woke at four a.m., unable to fall back asleep. Baking is my go-to when I’m anxious, so I scoured the pantry and found a can of pumpkin, immediately excited to whip up a batch of muffins.
But the better find was that at five thirty, the guys worked out. I’m guessing it’s a daily routine and my new incentive for rising prior to the sun.
So. Much. Sweat.
Swimming. Running. All the ups—push, pull, sit. And that’s merely what I could see—the obstacle course was out of view.
Every one of those men is magnificent. Strong and chiseled—next-level athletes.
But Wells …
Dear God, I didn’t know what sexy was before. I mean, he kills it in a suit, and my upbringing gave me that as a measure of a man—the suit, the fit, the money and power.
But as devastating as Gavin Wells is in his three-piece attire or even his jeans and blazer and three-thousand-dollar belt, shirtless and wet ruined me forever.
I sat on the patio, drinking my coffee, eating my muffin, and drooling like I’d had my wisdom teeth out. Lost to a colorful world of possibilities pole-dancing through my imagination.
A butterfly’s kiss.
If they had noticed, it would’ve been mortifying, but they were too in the zone. Moving fluidly as one being, like the eloquent cascade of a gushing waterfall. Hypnotic and captivating.
The distance was too great to see details, but Wells has tattoos. They all do. Art inked across his upper shoulder blades, crawling toward his sculpted biceps and chest, and a sleek one down his spine. The black images against his deep golden skin were striking. Scrumptious.
Now, all I can think about when I see him is how I want to undress him. But my mind immediately shuffles that into him forcing me to strip and do whatever he commands.
I’m a fucking mess.
After lunch, Ty escorts me down to a dress shop on the main floor of our tower. It’s filled with dresses for every occasion, although nothing is popping out. This will be fun regardless. Fake or not, I might as well enjoy it. We’re also meeting Rena here, which I’m thrilled about. There were approximately two hundred moments from the last week that required girl talk, and Celeste hasn’t responded to a single text. It’s a little disheartening, but I’m trying not to dwell.
The stylist greets us with a bright smile. “Welcome, Ivanna. I’m Amy. Right this way.” She leads us to a wall at the back of the store, stepping into a corner, swinging a mirror open like a door, and pushing. A hidden entrance. We walk into a much larger dress shop, full of glamorous gowns.
She hands me a glass of champagne and laughs when Ty declines his. “Have a look around. Rena is on her way, and then we’ll get started.”
In the center of the room, there areplush, velvety couches beneath an elegant glass chandelier. Ty takes a seat while I roam. LaLune Noire has mastered the exclusivity vibe, like being a guest lets you in on a secret that few are privileged to share.
I noticed it yesterday—how all the coveted areas require a staff member to key you in or the use of the code we were given at check-in. Even at the restaurant, L’ange Noire, meaning the dark angel—fitting—themaître d’ ushered us to what appeared to be an employee door and knocked three times. A small window slid open, and suddenly, we were entering into a lower level with jazz music and synchronized dancers, as though we had been transported back to a 1920s speakeasy.
And the charming spell was cast.
I felt special. Invited. Included.
It’s a brilliant business model, one that most certainly attracts those with the deepest pockets and the greatest sins.
This dress shop is no different. It’s only us with a vast selection of dresses, shoes, jewelry, and lingerie. It’s exactly the kind of bridal treatment to make a girl feel like a princess. I wish my mom and Celeste were here. I’ve tried not to make my mother feel bad about this. She’s been through so much with my father’s stroke. The stress was getting to her, so this European vacation is important. I don’t want to ruin it with guilt over her not attending my wedding of formality.
“Ivy?”
I spin to find a girl wearing dark-wash skinny jeans, silver heels, and a lavender cropped bodice top with blousy sleeves. It doesn’t show much, and yet it has the illusion that it does. She stares at me with hopeful green-hazel eyes. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail, pink streaks throughout and pink wisps hugging her golden-tanned face. She has a nose ring, eyebrow piercing, and at least six earrings in each ear. She looks like a punk Barbie—so cute.
“You must be Rena.” I hold my hand out to shake, but she yanks me into a hug.
“We don’t have time to be formal, girl. You have to be asdesperate as me for a girlfriend, being here with Wells’s crew. They’re as bad as my brothers.” She twists with a laugh. “Sorry, Ty.”
He chuckles with a, “No worries, Rena,” still lounging on the couch in the midst of dresses and lingerie—a duty, I’m assuming, that is far different from his usual work.
Rena seems to think that’s good enough and turns back to me, hands gripping my shoulders. “So, getting married to Wells, huh? I bet you need to verbally vomit a whole lot of shit. He’s as intense as Axel and Ryker.” She steps away, plucks a glass off the antique dresser, and downs her champagne in one gulp. Somehow, she still manages to appear chic while doing it. As she sets down the empty vessel, her eyebrows pinch. “I haven’t let you get a word in, have I?”
“It’s okay.” I laugh. “You’re fun to watch. Refreshing.”
