by Nadia Lee
The elevator doors open, and Ceinlys Pryce steps out.
Slim and fashionable, she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Her glossy black hair is in an elegant French twist, and she looks even thinner in a charcoal gray dress and black patent leather stilettos. The red lipstick on her mouth is stark against her pale skin, but somehow she pulls it off.
Still, for some odd reason, she looks…haunted. Her gaze roams, searching for something, and I have an odd feeling that she doesn’t know what that is. There’s no focus in her eyes.
“Aunt Ceinlys,” Ryder says. “What a surprise.”
She blinks. Her gaze sharpens, and her mouth curves. “Ryder.” She air kisses him on both cheeks. “Imagine running into you here.” She pulls back. “Is this about your marriage?”
He nods.
She looks at me. Her demeanor shows no hostility, but it’s not friendly either. “Congratulations, Paige.”
“Thank you.”
“You should come to our engagement party this weekend,” Ryder says. “I’m inviting everyone.”
She nods. “Send me the details, and I’ll see if I can make it.” There is a tiny moment of hesitation. “Is Salazar coming too?”
Ryder answers with care. “I can’t really exclude him.”
“Of course not.”
“But it’s at my place. You know how big it is. You won’t run into him unless you want to.”
“I understand.” She smoothes her dress. “The party should be all about you and Paige.” She checks her slim watch. “My goodness. I’m late for my appointment. Excuse me.”
As she walks past, the air becomes scented with Chanel No. 5.
“Do you think it’s wise to invite them both?” I ask as we step inside the waiting elevator. “They’re getting divorced.”
Ryder shrugs. “They’re both adults. They won’t do anything to embarrass us. If we don’t invite them, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Is your father coming too?” I have to keep talking. Otherwise I’m going to start thinking about my panties, or lack thereof. I want them back, but not right now. There’s a camera. Having video footage of Ryder Reed handing me my underwear in an elevator is not my idea of a good start to the week.
“He doesn’t know about the party yet. And I don’t plan to text him until Thursday. It’s not like he needs to come. All he has to know is that we’re engaged.” Ryder’s mouth twists. “You’re sure about no money for yourself at the end of our marriage?”
I almost choke. The sudden mention serves to bring back the memory of what happened in Samantha’s conference room. Ten million dollars…or a year of that.
If it were any other man, I might’ve just chosen the latter. But he is Ryder Reed, voted Sexiest Man Alive three times over. It seems reckless to open myself up to him, even physically like that.
At the same time… Taking that much money? It seems crazy.
I lick my lips. “Let me think about it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ryder
Let me think about it.
I hate those five words.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I drive us back to the main house. I used to like them. They meant that the speaker wasn’t impulsive. Was capable of considering different possibilities.
Now they sound like a delay tactic.
I can still taste Paige, and the luscious scent of her aroused flesh lingers in my nostrils. I won’t be able to forget it, ever, not even if somebody conks me on the head. My dick throbs, and I breathe through the mouth so I don’t inhale more of her fragrance, except it only seems to intensify her taste.
It might just be wishful thinking, but for a moment there it seemed like Paige was about to reciprocate. That wasn’t why I went down on her, but I’m no saint. Show me a red-blooded heterosexual man who says he’s isn’t interested in a lushly sexy woman offering to pleasure him, and I’ll show you a liar.
Then Samantha had to interrupt, just my rotten luck. And afterward, seeing Aunt Ceinlys did something to Paige, although I don’t quite know what. Did she seem intimidating to Paige? She shouldn’t let my aunt cow her. Ceinlys didn’t grow up rich, although she’s taken on the air of elegant affluence quite well. I’m sure Paige can too if that’s what she wants.
How can you be so certain? What do you know about her?
Nothing, really. Just what was in the background report.
No arrests. Not even an outstanding parking ticket under her name. A good student in college. Majored in English, minored in economics. Unexceptional family background—solid middle class with no hint of scandal or impropriety. To be expected since her stepfather’s a high school teacher, and her mother manages a grocery store.
But the facts don’t tell me anything I want to know. They don’t include her secret dreams…her favorite memories. She never told me any childhood stories or stuff about her step-sister.
Not that I talk about stuff like that or anything, but women love to talk to me about themselves. Besides, half my life is already public knowledge. Google my name and you’ll get hundreds of articles, photos and blog posts.
“When are you going to have your folks flown out?” I ask.
She clasps her hands and rests them on her lap. “I don’t know. A few days before the wedding?”
“That late?”
“Is there any point to bringing them out early? It’s just a logistical hassle. You don’t have to bother…although we should probably call and let them know everything’s fine. Simon’s worried.”
“There’s going to be a lot to do.” And brides-to-be always want to plan stuff with their moms. I’m certain when Elizabeth finds someone to marry, she’ll ask Mom to help her select the china and stuff.
“I can handle it,” Paige says, her hands too still.
“We only have four weeks before the ceremony.”
She stares at me, her mouth parted.
“Don’t worry. I hired a wedding planner to arrange everything.”
“I see.” Her voice’s a bit too tart. “It would’ve been nice if you’d talked to me about it first. Just because I agreed to marry you doesn’t mean you get to make all the big decisions without my input.”
“Like?”
“Like moving me out of my apartment without telling me first.”
“I thought you’d be more comfortable if you had your own things.”
Her mouth firms. “That’s totally not the point. The point is, you did it without asking me. Imagine how you’d feel if somebody did the same to you.”
Hmm. I guess she has a point there although I don’t really know why it’s such a big deal. “Do you want to fire the planner and hire one you want?”
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“But I still want your folks here. I want to get to know them a little.”
She frowns. “It’s only for a year, Ryder. I don’t think it’s a good idea to make them think it’s something more.”
It’s a good, logical argument. My parents getting involved is inevitable—Mom will want to criticize, and Dad will want to say shit just to stir things up. But Paige’s folks live in another state, and they don’t have the resources to drop everything and travel at will.
But I still want to meet them. Love ’em or hate ’em, families shape us. Even those of us who want to pretend that we’re the products of immaculate conception.
There’s a reason why I drove myself to the heights of fame and wealth in Hollywood. Most people just assume I’m ambitious, but that’s only half the story. I don’t want Dad to have any power over me. And without money, he would. I could—theoretically—just not care about money, but that’s easier said than done. If you don’t have it, you can’t even provide the most basic necessities for yourself and your loved ones.
I want to spend more than a couple of insanely hectic days with Paige’s folks. I want to know what kind of people they are, how they view Paige and what kind of upbringing she’s had.
I’m going to invite them all to Los Angeles before the wedding.
After all, I haven’t asked her parents for their blessing, and that’s what most scripts call for. Since it’s not a movie, there won’t be any disapproving father-in-law crap—I’m sure her father will be thrilled that she’s marrying so well.
Yup, it’s going to go splendidly.
Chapter Twenty
Paige
The next few days pass by in a blur.
After the meeting at Samantha Jones’s office, Bethany texts me for the tenth time, and I tell her I’ll talk to her in person about everything on Thursday if she’s up for lunch. Of course she’s up for it.
On Tuesday, Ryder hires Josephine Martinez to assist me. She’s beautiful, with large dark eyes and a mouth that’s perpetually curved into a bemused smile. The glamorous woman always dresses to make a splash, and her job is to make me look like I belong in Ryder’s world as an equal, not as the hired help.
It’s a project that requires some effort. She takes me through half a day of spa, which you’d think would be relaxing, but no. Nobody cares about what I want. It’s what Josephine deems appropriate, and she has definite ideas about that. To be fair, my skin glows, my nails are perfectly shaped and lacquered, and my hair is re-styled and totally glam after she’s through.
And the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday are spent shopping, which is exhausting. I try on outfit after outfit, and whenever I can grab a moment of free time, I’m texting with the wedding planner to discuss my preferences. Josephine stops only when I tell her I’m about to faint from hunger. I’m convinced she’s not human. She seems to get nourishment every time a sales clerk swipes Ryder’s plastic, like some kind of credit vampire.
Ryder’s no help since he’s been scarce for a few days, ostensibly to give me time to think the alimony situation over objectively. That’s probably him trying to play fair, since not that many women can think straight around a guy like that, and he knows it. But I’m also certain he’s swamped, since he no longer has me arranging his schedule and dealing with his mail and things. I can’t be his assistant and spend my entire day shopping at the same time.
But I wish he’d act as a buffer between me and Ms. Shopping Tornado…er, Josephine. Then I wouldn’t feel so exhausted. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Thursday comes, and I’m simply done. Feet hurt, joints hurt, my muscles are protesting. Josephine’s replaced my entire wardrobe, but she isn’t finished, meanwhile I just want to stay in bed and look at bridal magazines.
Josephine makes sure I’m properly dressed—a red Chanel and matching sandals—and drags me to an exclusive lingerie boutique. Their stuff is all hand-made in France, and you can’t even step inside the shop unless you have a black AmEx or something similar.
A salesperson comes over, walking across the marble floor. She’s in a white V-neck tunic and black skirt. People who work at a place like this also do not wear comfortable shoes, so she’s in a pair of high heels that click with every step. Unlike my nerdy horn-rimmed glasses—which thankfully I’m not wearing right now—hers are chic, black and make a statement. She pushes her black hair behind her slim shoulders and air kisses Josephine on both cheeks.
“Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, Ms. Johnson,” the woman says. “I’m Kanako Hamada. I’ll be assisting you and Josephine today.”
“Um, thanks,” I murmur.
Within minutes, we get to sit down, thank god. Two flutes of Dom Pérignon are served, and I wish I could have a sip. Drinking is a good way to dull the pain this is going to be.
“Do we have to do this?” I ask Josephine under my breath as we are shown underwear. They are beautiful, but I already have plenty of pretty things that I’ve been accumulating over the years.
Besides, I feel awkward about spending more of Ryder’s money. I understand why we had to replace my dresses and shoes and purses; people in his circle don’t wear clearance rack items—even if they did come from high-end department stores. But who’s going to notice underwear?
“Lingerie is what makes or breaks a woman’s confidence. Nothing bolsters you like a hot undergarment,” Josephine says as she gestures at the sales people to bring out more silk, lace and satin.
“I agree. But I have plenty of nice things.”
“Oh, but nothing like these.” Josephine picks up a black thong made with silk and black seed pearls. “Ryder’s going to appreciate today’s effort.” She grins.
I make sure to smile back, because there’s no way I can object to what she just said. What bride-to-be complains about buying sexy underwear anyway?
“Just so you know, I have a lunch date today,” I say.
“That’s fine. We’ll be done by then.” She tilts her head, her curls falling over one shoulder in a cascade. The gesture looks practiced. “I’m going to have them send what we select to Ryder’s place, so you don’t have to bother lugging everything around to your car.” She chuckles. “See? I can be reasonable.”
I shake my head. “Reasonable.” Sure, only mid-five figures spent in half a morning.
About half an hour before noon, I leave in Ryder’s black Mercedes. I prefer to drive my own car, but he insisted that I take one of his or he was going to buy me a Maserati so that can be my car, not the old Altima.
“You’re going to be seen,” he said. “And you know how media can be. I don’t want them speculating on why you’re tooling around in a Nissan.”
A valid concern. But I don’t have to like it.
I’m running late, so I valet park at the Sheraton near Bethany’s office and cross the street to slip inside a trendy bar and restaurant. She’s at the bar, and I wave.
She pushes a dirty martini my way. “Here. I saw you pull in, and I thought you could use one. All brides-to-be deserve a drink.”
“No, thank you. I had some champagne earlier, and I really shouldn’t, not when I have to drive.” The lie rolls off my tongue like a sweet candy, and I cringe inwardly. I hate deceiving my stepsister like this, but I have no choice.
I order a glass of ginger ale, and the bartender places it in front of me before tending to another customer who just walks in.
Bethany looks good. She’s positively glowing, although she isn’t showing yet. Unlike me, nobody’s bankrolling her outfit, so she’s in a modest black top and pants, plus a pair of red Converse. I, on the other hand, in my scarlet Chanel get-up, feel grossly overdressed.
She gives me one of her soul-warming hugs and takes my hand to check out my ring. “Oh my god, it’s gorgeous! Just lovely.” She gawks, turning the band this way and that.
“Thanks,” I say with a blush. I feel like a total fraud, but I can’t let her know.
“You have to tell me everything,” she says. “I can’t believe you never said a word, not even when you came to my house for my big announcement! And you accused me of withholding stuff in texts!”
I cringe.
“When did all this happen?” Bethany demands.
I take a long swallow of my ginger ale. “You saw the news. That’s when.”
“What about your other boyfriend?”
“It’s a long story, but we broke up.”
“How come you never said a word?”
“Because.” I keep my voice light and just slightly tart. “It’s pathetic to whine about my crappy love life to my sister, who has the love life of a romance novel heroine.”
“Oh for—! You got Ryder. Ryder Reed!”
“Wanna trade?” I joke.
“No way! Oliver’s the only man for me.” She leans closer. “That’s how you feel about Ryder, too, right?”
I swallow. My stepsister, always worried about me. “Of course.”
“Then that’s all that matters. I hope he makes you happy.”
“He does.” I smile for her benefit, then sigh. “He also makes me exhausted.”
Her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes dart around. “I can’t believe you sa
id that here…!”
I burst out laughing. “Get your mind out of the gutter! I mean all the shopping and wedding plans.”
“Oh. Well…that’s what happens when you have a month to plan a wedding to Hollywood royalty.”
The hostess comes and tells us our table is ready. Bethany hooks her arm in mine as we get up. “You hungry?”
“Oh my god. Starving.”
Our table turns out to be a private booth in the back. I’m grateful; the last thing I want is to have my photos plastered everywhere. I know I’m a “person of interest” right now, but I have no intention of rolling over and giving up my privacy without a fight.
I glance at the menu briefly. When the waitress comes over, I ask for a cheeseburger and fries plus a glass of fully caffeinated, sugary Coca-Cola Classic. I don’t care how many calories, carbs and fat are in my lunch. I deserve it after the way this week’s gone.
I look to see if my order shocks her, but the waitress is professionally uninterested. Bethany orders the same except she substitutes OJ for the drink.
“So how’s the wedding thing going?” Bethany asks.
“I have no idea. We have a planner—supposed to be very good—who’s doing most of the work. Ryder’s bearing the entire cost since he wants the grandest event of the year.”
“Won’t that be hard to manage with his cousin’s just a few weeks ago? I saw photos, and it looked incredible.”
“Yeah. But I don’t think he cares.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m okay with anything as long as we’re married. I’m not picky.” If it were left up to me, we would be eloping in Vegas.
Bethany looks at me speculatively, but she doesn’t get to ask any follow-up questions because our server returns with the food.
I take the opportunity to quickly change the subject. “So tell me… How are things with you? I remember you saying that you were thinking about a Kickstarter campaign, but…”
“Oh.” Her eyes light up. “My webcomic site got full funding!”
“No way! Seriously? You should’ve said something so I could put in some money for you. Not to mention, Ryder has lots of followers on social media, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded promoting your stuff.”