by Amy Faye
And, by the way, for a family worth more than a billion dollars between the six of them, and if you start counting the value of their business that can't be measured in terms of raw dollar amounts, it goes up even higher? It'd be unthinkable not to have your dress custom-made. Which means that there's a whole new world of information out there that I need to be thinking about.
Oh, and all of this happens while I have to go back to work. So I'm having a good time, so far, needless to say.
Blake leans over my shoulder and looks down at the book open in my lap. By this point, I'm wrapped so tight that I feel like my head's going to pop right off. His hands fall on my shoulders and squeeze gently. It's not much of a massage but for me it might as well be manna from heaven.
"What are we looking at here?"
"Color themes," I say. The information's there, but I can't look at it. None of it matters. I'd be happy just disappearing with Blake one day, and never coming back. But it's been a long time since I had any family at all, and the family I did have was small. I didn't have a half-dozen sisters, and a ton of expectations to fulfill for my mother to avoid disappointing her.
"I think I like this one," he says, reaching over and tapping a thick finger on one. I take a deep breath in and enjoy his woody scent. His arms wrap around my shoulders, one hand falling on my breast.
I look down at it and then crane my neck to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "Oh."
"Is there a problem?"
"No problem."
"I'm glad to hear that, then." He presses a kiss into my neck, his beard scratching my skin. "Do you want to do something to relax? You feel tense."
"I am tense, but we have to get this done."
"Fuck it. Doesn't matter."
"It matters to your family," I tell him. I let him knead my breast though, in spite of knowing better.
"I know. But it's stressing you out, and I don't hate to see you like this."
"I'll get over it."
"Yeah, well. Look. They're going to get over it, too, if you don't do all this stuff. Besides, no matter how much you do on your own, you know that my mother's just going to want to get her hands on it anyways."
I lean my head back and let him press another kiss against my throat. His hand moves down the neck of my tee-shirt and traces across the flesh of my chest. I let him explore for another few seconds, long enough to roll a nipple between his fingers, before I pull him back away.
"You're right, they will get over it. But I want to do this right, okay?"
"I understand," he says. He drops lower. "Which one do you like?"
"Well there's got to be red, right?"
"Why?"
"You know exactly why, Blake Yovanovich, so don't you play the fool with me."
"Oh, right."
"So I'm thinking this one, but I'm open to suggestions."
If there could have been two more different palettes, I can't imagine them. His is dark and moody and blue, and exactly the sort of colors that I can imagine him or his brothers liking. Mannish colors.
Meanwhile, mine is warm and reddish and light. As light as I can make it, anyways, with brilliant red accents.
"I don't see it," he says. His hands start reaching again, and I decide that I know a better idea than sitting here and arguing about color schemes, and that idea is to let him do what he's going to do.
Then my phone rings. God damn it. I check it, hoping that it's nothing, so I can lean back and enjoy myself. But it's work.
"I need to take this."
"Tell them you had your phone turned off," he suggests. He seems to think it's a serious option, which just goes to show how much he doesn't understand what I'm dealing with here.
"I'm not going to ignore it," I say, my thumb already flicking across. I can tell the minute that I answer, from Adam's voice, that I need to come in.
"Cassidy?"
"What's the problem?"
"I know it's your day off, but…"
"Just tell me what the problem is," I say, pushing myself up from the couch and letting the color palette cards fall in a stack on the coffee table. "I'll be on my way in a second either way."
22
There's a lot that I'm not looking forward to, about this wedding. Of all of it, though, I'm about to make the worst part happen right before my eyes. The part that I've been dreading since I calmed down from the high of telling Margaret right to her face that she wasn't going to be able to get rid of the "skanky harpy" that had hooked her son.
Eventually, I was going to have to tell Alina and Hollie that I'm about to marry the guy I met less than a year ago, and ask them not just to be okay with it, but be so okay with it that they actually help me do it.
Hollie, I think, will handle it. But Alina? I'm not sure. So I came up with a plan, and the plan's going to work great. I flip through the stack of envelopes, front to back, and then rearrange them back to front again. Then I rearrange them back into the right order.
I wait. And then I wait a little longer. The waiting isn't part of the plan. In fact, the whole plan is built around the idea that there's nothing to worry about so I won't need to drag my heels.
But my heels are dragging in spite of myself, in spite of how great the entire plan had seemed. Then the door in front of me opens and Adam looks at me with a tired expression.
Once upon a time, I found him intimidating. He's got piercing eyes, and he's not always serious, but it doesn't stop him from always looking the part. But after meeting Anatoly, it's hard to be afraid of anyone, really. No matter who it is, they don't know to an absolute certainty that if they wanted to, all it would take would be the snap of their fingers and your life had already ended.
"Miss Black?"
"Adam!" I try to sound cheerful and pleased, but I can feel my stomach trying to pull itself apart in a thousand different directions. "Hey!"
"You know that I can see you through the door, right? There's a very big window here."
"Oh, yeah," I say. I let out a little laugh. "I know. But I just…"
"You, what?"
"I thought that I ought to, um. I'm getting married, and…"
I hand him the envelope. He looks at it like I've just handed him a subpoena to appear in court.
"You're not inviting me to your wedding, right?"
"It's a save-the-date. More like a formal 'heads up' that I'm getting married."
"Can I give you a piece of advice? Free of charge?"
"Sure," I say, not sure what I'm supposed to expect. He takes a deep breath, opening the envelope with the side of his thumb, his eyes downcast.
"I don't want to be invited to your wedding, Miss Black. But have a good time, anyways."
"Oh, yeah. Uh, of course." I smile because it seems like the right thing to do, and because I don't know how else I'm supposed to respond. "I wasn't going to."
"Good to know that we understand each other. I like you. You're a good girl, and a good employee, and I'm happy that we both understand that our relationship ends there."
"Yep," I said. It was what I expected, and yet, somehow, the stiffness of it all has me blinking in surprise. Well, it went well, in its own way. Now to get off the bunny slopes.
The best way to handle this, I know, is to get them both together at once. Alina's perfectly good common sense can't overwhelm Hollie forever. At least, I hope not.
Two hours later, and we're surrounding a table in a cafe and bake shop. I've got a bread bowl in front of me, one that is currently getting soggier by the minute, and one that I haven't touched. One I don't intend to touch any time soon.
"So what's up? Why'd you call us out here?"
"Well, there's something I thought I should talk to both of you about."
"Okay? This isn't related to, what's his name, Blake, right?"
"It is, actually," I say, making a tight line with my lips. "Here, these are for you."
I hand them both envelopes. They're not sealed, and Alina and Hollie both open them slowly. Inside is
a card that we spent way too much money having designed with a photo of the two of us gazing lovingly into each others eyes, with the words "Save the Date" and "April 27" marked on them.
Alina's face reacts first, but it's Hollie who has the first words. "Married?! You're kidding!"
She looks as excited as anyone I've ever seen, about anything, including children on Christmas.
Alina speaks up next. "Brief engagement."
"Oh, don't be like that."
"Don't be like what, exactly?"
"I need you two on my side here, okay? I need you to help me out with this wedding thing."
"Which entails what?"
"First and foremost, I need you to keep his mother from trying to Tonya Harding me before the wedding."
"Look, I don't know her, but maybe you should think about this more. I don't want to be a bitch, but…"
I look over to Hollie, who practically inhales a baguette. "Come on, Alina! Dresses! Dress shopping! Cake tasting! Wine tasting!"
"Yes, Hollie, I know what a wedding is," she says. Her eyes close. "I just don't think I'm comfortable with it."
"I know how you feel, Alina. I really do. I understand. But this is going to happen, with or without you, and I really don't mean to sound like a bitch when I say that."
"So what you're saying is, you need me, but you're not going to listen to what I have to say about it?"
"You know that I always listen to what you have to say, and I respect you one hundred percent."
"Okay, then listen to me when I say that this is a bad idea. It's too quick."
"It's quick, but, I've thought this through, okay? I'm not making a mistake. Will you be there for me? Babe?"
Alina let out a long breath and re-examined the postcard-sized card I'd given her. The one that matched Hollie's perfectly, in every way. Then she looked back up at me.
"You know I'm not going to leave you hanging like that."
The energy that had been building up in Hollie the past few minutes exploded into a hug that threatened to strangle the life out of Alina, and her voice reached a pitch only audible to dogs. And I couldn't help but smile.
23
I keep telling myself that I should be happy. After all, Margaret keeps offering to buy my dress, and she's offered to introduce me to Laurent Reece to make it. I didn't know the name when she said it, and I especially didn't know it when she just said "Oh, I'll have to introduce you to Laurent." But according to Google, he's a big name. Very famous, very important, and from the photo, not an bad looking man himself.
Nor, in case anyone gets any ideas, is his husband.
I repeat it over and over again, like a broken record. 'You should be thankful, you should be thankful, you should be thankful.'
Eventually, I hope, with a great deal of luck, I might be able to get over the fact that I'm just not. No matter how much she offers to help, and no matter how much I appreciate the help she offers, she's always going to be Margaret, after all.
And it doesn't help that Hollie and Alina are working today, the 'only day' that Margaret could possibly do the introduction. It's impossible to reschedule, apparently, even though she's such good friends with him that she needs to remind me how big a favor she's doing every few seconds.
"It's nice to meet you," I start. Laurent's glasses seem like they're about to start slipping off his nose, and he's got a jacket that fits more like a shawl around his shoulders, but he manages to look good in spite of all that. Fashion designers.
"You must be Cassandra. Margaret told me all about you."
"Cassidy, actually," I correct him. He blinks in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, I wrote it down and everything. How rude of me, it must be my mistake."
Margaret cut in. "Oh, I'm sorry. Must have been a slip of the tongue. Oh, well, no use crying now, right?"
"Sure," I agree. I smile. I flutter my eyelashes in the hopes that I might be able to hide the irritation that's already starting to build up. We've been together ten minutes and I'm already starting to think that maybe 'let's call the whole thing off' might make more sense than spending another ten minutes.
"But I did send the photos, right? The engagement photos?"
"Ah, yes, I got those. Though, I must say, Miss Black, you're even prettier in person."
"She's not one of your models, Laurent. Let's get a move on."
I smile at him, because otherwise I'd have to look at Margaret, and I'm just not there yet.
"Okay, well, I've got a few sketches, and I wanted to know what you think."
"Don't forget, darling," Margaret cut in as he started to walk away. He turned, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly to show that he's listening, and now he's not moving any more because he's waiting for Margaret to speak. So she takes her sweet time in finishing. "She's got, you know…" Margaret smashed her breasts together. "We don't want anything that's going to show off too much. Do we, Cassidy?"
I should be grateful, I say again. I should be grateful. I should be grateful. She's paying for the dress, and it's going to be extremely expensive. She's introducing me to this famous guy, and he seems to be perfectly reasonable. Even nice, all told. So I should be nice.
"I definitely don't want to look nipply, that's true," I say. I hope it sounds enough like agreement that it's not going to piss her off, while at the same time not making it sound like I want to look like a puritan. I don't mind a design that's a little bit conservative. After all, from the beginning I knew that there were going to be some sacrifices made.
"Well, I've got plenty of options here, if you'll just come take a look."
"I just worry, you know?" She starts over to the table and I follow behind. For one I think that I might be able to manage this, I hope. At least, for a minute. "What if it looks like my son is marrying some big-titted bimbo?"
This time Laurent didn't respond right away, just looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "Don't worry, Margaret, you don't need to worry about that. I think you've known me long enough to know that I'm not going to make something trashy."
"Of course. It's why I knew I could trust you, you know? I just get so worried. Some cases, I guess, are just too much, right? So I wanted to make sure that you felt like you were up to the challenge."
"It's no trouble at all," he said. Suddenly it was like a switch flipped, and he was avoiding my eyes. He took a deep breath and I bent over the table to look at the drawings. They were lovely.
The rest of the conversation wasn't.
Three hours later, Blake was sitting on my couch listening to me tell the whole story. He kept his eyes shut and his fingers laced behind his head, but I could see his lips pinching together every couple moments, as if he were holding himself back from responding. As if he were holding himself back from any response at all, really.
He waited until I was finished. The end of the story was exactly what it should have been, of course, because I can be a team player when I have to be. I picked out a dress, one that Margaret liked. It wasn't on my body, of course, but it was more conservative than I had hoped, and of course, it was cream-colored because how could she have me in white?
But it wasn't that bad. I went quiet, and he nodded. "You okay?"
"I guess."
He stood up and crossed over to my comfy chair. "Do you want to be more okay?"
His knee pressed between mine and I suddenly realized precisely how 'more okay' he meant. Silently, I nodded and laid back, a slow smile spreading on my face.
24
I part my thighs and the skirt I was wearing, a very reasonable skirt I thought, starts to slide up, showing more and more skin, inch by inch. Blake's lips press against my neck, his teeth scraping gently along my skin. I can feel myself starting to relax into the pleasure already, and we've barely even begun.
"You like that, don't you?"
I nod for him. My legs spread a little wider for him until I'm practically offering to let him just start shoving himself inside my pussy without any foreplay
at all. God only knows, I could use his cock in me. I need it. But I'm not going to get it, not until he's had his fun.
He grabs the front of my blouse and pulls hard. I hear the sound of buttons skittering across the ground, and part of me wants to worry about it, but it's so fucking hot that I really don't care. If it means he acts like dominant like that, I'll let him ruin all my blouses.
His hands pull aside my bra, and he wastes no time in moving that mouth down to my breast, his teeth pinching around my nipple until I can't help letting out my voice in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
"Ow."
"You want me to stop?"
"Stop and the wedding's off," I say. "Finger me. Please."
He moves his mouth to my other breast and for a moment I think he's going to ignore my request. Then he pushes the crotch of my panties to the side with a thumb and enters me roughly with one thick finger. I'm going to need to stretch a lot more if he's going to fuck me, but I already feel him stretching me out with just that.
"Oh, that's good." He presses his tongue into my nipple and swirls it roughly. Then, just as I start to really settle into enjoying it, he bites down again. It hurts again, and I fucking love it again. "Do that again."
He bites down, hard and fast and then releases it just as quickly. His finger moves inside me and I can feel my breath starting to catch in my chest as I try to keep myself thinking straight, and he tries his best to stop me. I know which one of us is going to win, and I don't have any intention of trying to stop him.
With a crook of his finger he presses into a sensitive place inside me and I spasm involuntarily as I come desperately close to the edge, but I don't go over. I wish I could, wish I did.
"You want me to fuck you?"
"Make me cum, baby."
His hand starts moving inside me, and on the back-stroke of one gentle thrust he adds a second finger. He makes a scissoring motion inside me, spreading me out. Stretching me. I let my eyes drift shut; if I'd forced them open, my vision was just going to blur more and more, darken more and more as I get closer.