Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Do you know which car Ashton’s riding in?” I ask.
“He just got into that one,” she says and points at the farthest limo. “Go ahead. There’s still room.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Which one will you take?”
She points to the nearer limo. “Landon wants to talk to Jarrod some more.”
“Ah. I see.” My choices seem to be Ashton or Mr. Suck-Up. “I’m going with you guys, so you and I can catch up.”
She nods at that, but like during the dinner last night, we don’t really get the chance to catch up because her boyfriend word-vomits business ideas to Jarrod the entire ride.
Exiting the limo, I take in our surroundings: a golden-sand beach in front of a rough, gray-blue ocean, with a few surfers bravely catching the tall-ish waves. A boardwalk stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction, and happy beachgoers frolic about, clearly enjoying the warm weather.
“That’s where it will happen.” Janie gestures at the pier in the middle of it all.
I figured as much, given the red carpet leading to our destination, and the fact that the pier has been heavily decorated with flowers and balloons.
“I thought everything was going to be super simple,” I muse.
“And it is, simple… for a billionaire,” she says.
She has a point. The red and white roses covering every empty inch of the pier likely cost more than I make in a year, but the flowers are not gold-plated, which shows definite restraint on Marcus’s part.
“What’s with the cat food jars?” Janie asks.
Huh. She’s right. Right below each balloon is a can of cat food, all different brands.
I grin. “It’s a nod to the first gift Marcus sent Emma—flowers and cat food.”
What I don’t add is that Janie would know this if she hadn’t disappeared on us, resurfacing only because of her boyfriend’s machinations.
No. I will not be negative today. Not on Ems’s wedding day.
I will be so saintly I might even be nice to Ashton… Or if not nice, very good at avoiding conflict.
And… speak of the devil. I spot him, wearing a bespoke tux.
Holy fuck. The effect of Ashton’s signature V-shape is multiplied a thousand-fold, and an air of old-money, commanding arrogance pours out of his every cufflink and lapel. And did I mention the confidence the suit makes him exude? It’s radiating from him like a fucking halo.
Wait. What am I doing? I’m supposed to ignore the manwhore, not ogle him like a tasty morsel.
Yet, when he spots me, his eyes darken temptingly, and I can’t help but lick my lips—a gesture that makes the asshole smirk, like he knows the effect he’s having on me.
“Nice dress,” he murmurs, approaching us.
Janie audibly gulps. “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course,” he says, turning his potent charm on her. “Who else?”
Janie blushes.
Poor girl. Ashton in that tux has clearly jumbled her brain enough to forget that we’re wearing the exact same dress.
And hey, I feel her pain… and wish I were wearing more substantial underwear.
Fuck.
The wedding.
Must focus on it.
Except Marcus and Emma aren’t here. Nor is the priest—assuming that Marcus wants to use one to officiate, and not, say, an Ayn Rand impersonator or the Secretary of the Treasury.
Oh, I know. Maybe I should think about my design project. Would that make me stop darting glances at Ashton?
It’s worth a shot, except I’m still a bit blank when it comes to the details of my project.
Maybe I should design a tuxedo? For women?
No. Too close to the thing that I’m trying to avoid.
A wedding dress?
Hmm. That’s actually not a bad idea. Tierre has done this for a few celebs and—
“Hello, everyone,” says a beautiful and much-too-cheerful woman holding a giant camera. “My name is Gala, and I’m the MC and photographer for this nuptial jubilee.”
“Hi, Gala,” Ashton says in that deep, melty voice of his.
“Hi,” Gala answers breathlessly. Based on her expression, something has clearly just short-circuited in her brain. Or her ovaries.
“Where do you want us?” Ashton asks.
Snapping out of her daze, Gala has all the groomsmen pose together, then the bridesmaids, and then it’s time for what I’ve been dreading since she showed up: a group photo.
“I want you there.” Gala points me right at Ashton’s crotch.
I swallow hard and shake my head.
Ashton’s eyes grow flinty, but he doesn’t comment.
“Why not?” Gala asks. “Aren’t you a couple?”
I gape at her. “What? No! What gave you that idea?”
She shrugs. “When you shoot weddings for as long as I have, you develop a knack for these things.”
“Well, we’re not,” I snap.
“Can you stand together anyway?” She bats her eyelashes pleadingly at Ashton. “It would make the picture look more balanced.”
Muttering something under his breath, Ashton walks over and stands by me, which makes me feel like a space object caught in the devastating gravitational pull of Jupiter. My palms sweat, and my heart pitter-patters in my chest as if I’m having a heart attack.