Beauty and the Billionaire: The Wedding

by Jessica Clare

  Hunter kissed her shoulder again, his scarred fingers brushing over her bare skin. “I know you, Gretchen. You have that look on your face that says you’re stressed. You need to tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She leaned over to rinse and spit, making sure to push her ass against his cock as she did, because hey, she was human and her fiancé was superhot. “I’m not stressed,” she protested again. “Okay, maybe I am, but it’s just wedding stuff. It’ll all be done soon.”

  The look he gave her in the mirror was affectionate, even as his hands slid into the waist of the pajama pants she’d just put on not five minutes ago. “You fired another caterer, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe. I mean, if they don’t know how to make a decent croquembouche, I can’t exactly have them catering my holiday-themed wedding, can I? Also, did you notice that our colors aren’t holiday? I’ve got to figure out how to meld the pinky-purple of the bridesmaid dresses with the new decor and—”

  “And you’re changing things at the last minute,” Hunter chided, tugging the pajama pants down and exposing her panties. “We’ve had this conversation. Let it go.” He knelt and began to kiss the curve of her ass from behind, sending tingling shock waves of lust through her body.

  Damn, and here she thought she’d be the one distracting him. Gretchen tossed her toothbrush down on the counter and shoved her pants down to help him out. They’d been together for over a year now, but the sex was just as intense and consuming as it was on day one. And when Hunter’s mouth began to move lower down her hip, even as he turned her around so he could pay attention to her front? The breath left Gretchen’s body entirely.

  She twined her fingers in his hair and moaned when he began to kiss toward the patch of curls shielding her sex. “God, I love you.”

  His chuckle skittered across her skin like a feather. “You always say that when I’m about to go down on you.”

  So she did. Like that was a problem. She meant it, though. And as he kissed his way between her parted legs, she vowed that nothing was going to come between them.

  Not crazy weddings, not blackmailing assholes, nothing.

  ***

  “Come on. Let’s do another thirty burpees.”

  Daphne groaned and remained flat on her yoga mat, staring up at the ceiling. This was hell, right? This had to be hell. Unfortunately for her, hell came around at seven every morning to put her through an intense workout, and then shadowed her for the rest of the day. “We just did fifty crunches,” she panted.

  “Which is why we need to get your heart rate back up,” Wesley—aka Satan—said. He patted her arm and then sprang to his feet as if made of air. “Come on. Thirty burpees and then we’ll do some weight training.”

  “I don’t have another thirty in me,” she whined, even as she crawled to her feet and put her hands on her hips, glaring at her trainer.

  “You do,” Wesley said cheerfully. “You’re strong. Come on, now.” And he jumped into the air, indicating she should follow along.

  “Fucking hell. This is what I get for showing up at the studio in sweatpants,” she grumbled, but flung herself into the air. Thirty burpees. She could do thirty. Hopefully. “Fucking . . . label. . . . thinks I’m too fucking . . . fat . . .” she panted as she went through the motions of each burpee. Arms in the air and jump, then fling herself back down to the floor into a push-up, then fling herself back onto her feet again. It was torture. It didn’t help that Wesley—gorgeous, studly, workout god Wesley—did them like he was born to it. He bounded through each one while she limped along, huffing and puffing like she was dying.

  But then the thirty was over, and she bent in half, groaning.

  He patted her sweaty back. “You’re doing great, Daph. Drink some water and then we’ll get on the free weights.”

  She headed to her water bottle and towel while Wes did a few more sets of burpees. Since he was her trainer and personal shadow, he took a bit more time in the gym every morning—and that was after being up and running for two hours—to keep his gorgeous physique in shape. She sipped her water and leaned against the wall of her private gym, trying not to stare as he put an arm behind his back and started to do one-armed push-ups. His tank top was open on the sides and loose, showing ripped abs and rock-hard muscles. Dear god, she was going to start drooling if he kept that up. She dabbed at her face and forced herself to look away, out the window into the gray Manhattan morning.

  It was wrong to be crushing on her trainer and life coach. Seriously, a very bad idea, and even Daph—who excelled at poor decisions—knew it was bad. He was her nutritionist, bodyguard, trainer, and constant companion. When she’d gotten out of rehab four months ago, the label had paid through the nose to assign Wesley to her. This was what he did for a living—he shadowed troubled celebrities and helped them get their lives back on track, and then he moved on to the next. And so, even if he was the most mouthwatering of beefcakes, he was not for her.

  Which was for the best, she told herself, watching him work his way through another set of backbreaking reps that only showed how fit he was. Wesley was smart and funny, and intensely disciplined. He was also completely different than anyone she’d ever met. He never drank anything stronger than green tea, never smoked, never lit up, never partied, nothing. She didn’t even think he ate anything with sugar. In fact, she was pretty sure he didn’t, because ever since he’d moved in, she didn’t get sugar, either, and he ate the same things she did. It was all egg whites and asparagus and so much fucking plain water she thought she’d float away.

  Every time she wanted something unhealthy, Wesley took it out of her hand. Cigarettes were a gateway drug back to the crack. Sodas were bad for you and led to sugar addiction. Cronuts? Absolutely fucking not. Coffee? Only black and decaf. And Wesley even went through the groceries her housekeeper brought back and threw out ‘poor choices’. He drove Daphne crazy. He drove her housekeeper crazy.

  The label? The label fucking loved him, of course, because his methods worked. And she’d been clean as a fucking whistle since he’d come into her life, which was good, she supposed.

  The problem was that being clean meant she couldn’t hide from all her issues. And somewhere in the last few drug-filled years, she’d scared everyone out of her life. She told everyone she was fine with it. That fans filled the hole of loneliness. That she didn’t mind that her old partying friends didn’t call now that she was sober, and her family had given up on her a while back. That was okay.

  She had Wesley and her music, and most days that was enough.

  Except once this Christmas album was in the can for next year, the label wanted to evaluate how she was doing. If she was doing great? Wesley would move on to another client.

  And she’d be all alone again.

  Her fingers twitched and she slumped against the wall. Just thinking about all that made her really, really want a cigarette. She licked her lips hard and stared out at the skyline again, as if it’d have answers.

  “Daph, come on. Time for weights.” He hopped to his feet and moved to the rack. “Let’s start with twenty-fives and see how we handle that, all right?”

  “Sure,” she said listlessly, and followed after him.

  Wesley paused, frowning over at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She marched in front of him, irritated. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? I said I’d lift the fucking weights.”

  He handed her a dumbbell. “Yes, but you didn’t bitch about it. Something’s wrong.”

  She snatched it from his grasp. “Oh, fuck off, Wesley.”

  “Bicep curl, alternate,” he instructed, crossing his arms to watch her. “And tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Daphne curled one weight obediently, ignoring his second request.

  “Daphne,” he warned as she continued to flex the weights silently. “This is part of our agreement.” He pointed at her and the
n himself. “We work out problems. We don’t bottle them up, remember?”

  She gave him a snarl. “I’m just tired, okay? I’m tired of weights and working out and eating Bibb lettuce instead of Chinese takeout and I’m tired of everyone being on my ass twenty-four-seven.” She thrust the weights back at him. “I’m tired of fucking Christmas music and tired of Manhattan. I’m tired of all of this shit and I want to go back to California. I hate it here. I hate working out, and I really, really want a fucking cigarette.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, she felt like an asshole. She’d lashed out at him when he was just trying to help her.

  Wesley just watched her, the expression on his face impassive.

  Shit. She took one of the weights back from his hands. “I know, I’m being a dick and you can’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to say it. I chase everyone away.”

  He shook his head. “You were an addict. That’s different.”

  “Yeah? Tell that to my family.” The light laugh she tried to produce ended up being choked and ugly. “It’s a week until Christmas and my sister’s getting married and do you think one of them has even called me? They don’t even want a damn wedding gift from me, I’m such a mess.”

  “You were a mess,” he corrected. “You’re on the road to recovery.”

  “Yeah, whee. Six months in rehab and another six clean. A whole fucking year.” She twirled a finger and then began to do curls with the other weight. “I know they’re just waiting for me to slip up again.”

  “But you won’t. You’re stronger than that.”

  His utter confidence in her made her want to cry. “Come on, Wesley. You know me better than that. I’m not strong. I whine and bitch and the only reason I’m doing good is because you’re here at my side constantly to slap my hand when I reach for bad things.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is true,” she exploded again. “That’s your job, remember?”

  “It’s not me, Daphne. You’re a lot stronger than you realize.” He put his hand over hers, where she gripped the weight. “And I’m not always going to be here.”

  “I know.” That made her want to cry, too. The thought of Wesley leaving made her feel all kinds of hollow. Not because she needed him, but because she liked him. He was the one person in the world that hadn’t given up on her. The one person in her life that looked at her like she wasn’t a piece of shit.

  “You need to believe that you’re strong,” he told her gently, his thumb caressing her bare, sweaty arm. “You’re Daphne Petty. You’ve sold twenty million albums and have had five number-one hits. You sell out concerts everywhere you go. People are dying for your next record. That means something.”

  Did it? She’d done all that while coked out of her mind. “It doesn’t mean anything if the world hates you.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  A sexual flush moved through her, and she became acutely aware of Wesley’s hand on her arm . . . and the fact that she hadn’t had sex in a year. “You’re paid to not hate me.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Wesley said, his hard mouth turning up at the corner. “And I bet your sisters don’t hate you. You said you pushed them away, didn’t you? So why not reach out to them again? Bring them holiday gifts.”

  “They don’t want to see me.”

  “You don’t know that. And you’ll never know that unless you extend the olive branch.”

  She considered it for a long moment, then looked up at him. “What about your family? Do you need time off for Christmas?”

  “We can talk about that later.” The look on his face became that one she’d learned to dread during their workouts. “And since you’re not in the mood to do arm curls, let’s do more burpees.”

  Daphne groaned aloud. “Fucking torturer.”

  Why on earth was she falling in love with this man? She must be crazy.

  ***

  Gretchen: I need a bridesmaid check-in. How are we all doing and does anyone have a peanut allergy?

  Audrey: Oh boy. You’re gonna lose your mind before we hit the big day, aren’t you?

  Gretchen: Don’t be ridiculous. Anyone else?

  Taylor: Um, I have an allergy to olives.

  Gretchen: There won’t be any olives in anything I’m baking, I promise. And it’s normal for a girl to check in on her bridal party! We have the bachelorette party in 3 days. Which . . . I should probably bake something for.

  Greer: Wait, wait. Why are you baking, Gretchen? What happened to the lovely baker we just signed on last week? You paid him an enormous fee!

  Gretchen: There was a croquembouche disaster.

  Brontë: Croque-what?

  Greer: Oh no, Gretchen. More firings? You can’t cater the entire wedding yourself!

  Edie: Gretchen, honey, you’re going to give yourself a nervous breakdown before the wedding.

  Gretchen: That’s everyone except . . . wait, who are we missing? Someone’s gone radio silent on me!

  Gretchen: RED ALERT. RED ALERT.

  Gretchen: Who are we missing?

  Gretchen: Oh my god, I swear I’m going to have a nervous breakdown if someone doesn’t chime in soon.

  Chelsea: You guys are killing me. Really, really killing me. It’s seven in the morning. Don’t any of you sleep? My phone’s going off like there’s some sort of national disaster going on!

  Gretchen: Oh thank god. There’s Chelsea.

  Greer: Gretchen, what can I help you with?

  Taylor: Want me to come help you bake some stuff?

  Audrey: I can get a babysitter if you need me to come by. Or I’ll make Reese take Chloe for the day. He wants to take her to the park.

  Gretchen: Oh my god, Chloe is like, 3 months old, Audrey. What is she going to do at the park?

  Audrey: Spit up on her daddy and get some fresh air?

  Edie: That’s so adorable. I think my ovaries just exploded.

  Chelsea: You have ovaries? I thought you just had cats.

  Edie: I do have ovaries. They compel me to adopt more cats. Speaking of, you guys want one? There’s the cutest little rescue we just picked up yesterday and she’s a bit too scared of the café!

  Edie: Hello?

  Brontë: Um.

  Edie: All right, dammit, I can take a hint.

  Taylor: I think we should stage a bridesmaid intervention and swoop in and help Gretchen today.

  Edie: I can be there by noon if I clear my schedule.

  Audrey: Same. I’ll let Reese know he has baby duty.

  Greer: My schedule is open, of course. I’ll be there in an hour, Gretchen.

  Taylor: Me too!!

  Brontë: I’ll talk with Marjorie and let her know I won’t be in until tomorrow, but I can make it over.

  Chelsea: Ah, crap. Okay, I’m getting out of bed. Well, in a minute. Sebastian’s awake and happy to see me.

  Taylor: TMI!!

  Gretchen: You guys can’t see it but I’m totally blubbering over here. I love all of you.

  ***

  Daphne hesitated at the door of the enormous Buchanan Manor. She had a poinsettia plant in hand as a housewarming gift, but that felt a little stupid considering her sister had been living here for over a year now. It wasn’t the size of the place that was making her stomach tie up in knots—hell, last year, she’d performed for a prince’s private birthday party. She’d seen buildings that would put this one to shame.

  It was that she wasn’t invited, and she was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to be welcomed.

  She glanced back at the taxi, where Wesley was sitting in the back, watching her. He gave her a thumbs-up, and the look on his face was confident. Very much the ‘you’ve got this, Daph’ sort of look that he always gave
her. And for some reason, that made her feel better. Maybe she did have this. Maybe Gretchen wouldn’t slam the door in her face.

  God, she wished Wesley was coming in with her. She wanted to wave him forward, but she knew he felt she should do this on her own. That was key to growing and adapting, he’d told her in the car on the way over. She needed to learn to be okay on her own. Today was a baby step that would be part of a larger process, and it was good for her to go visit her family by herself. She didn’t need him hovering, he’d proclaimed, and given her a proud look. Like she was someone to be proud of.

  Funny, she still felt like Daphne the Mess. She wondered if that feeling ever went away.

  Probably not.

  She smoothed a hand over her reddish-blonde ponytail and straightened her sunglasses. Between the natural hair color and the fact that she’d gained twenty—okay, thirty-five—pounds since entering rehab? She didn’t get recognized on the street a lot. People were too busy looking for thin and glamorous Daphne Petty, global superstar with aquamarine hair, a wild dress, and two pounds of makeup. No one looked twice at a frumpy redhead with no makeup. Well, most days. Sometimes the paps were tipped off and then she’d have to endure another week of horrifying pictures of her in the tabloids, usually photoshopped to make her look like an utter train wreck, and then more conference calls and discussions with the label about her progress.

  If it wasn’t Wesley up her ass, it was the label, thanks to Cade Archer’s intervention. Ever since he’d bought enough shares to be on the board, it was no longer “Here, have another hit of the good stuff before going on stage, Daphne.” It was “Did you do your yoga today, Daphne?” or “Here’s a great recipe for quinoa with apples, Daphne.”

  Which . . . wasn’t terrible. It was just different. In fact, most of the time she liked it. She liked knowing that people were pulling for her instead of waiting for her to screw up. That was a rather nice change.