Girl in Luv

by Rebecca Yarros

  “If you want me to stand out, to draw attention in a way that’s going to make it obvious that you’re waving a giant ‘fuck you’ flag, then why put me in something that helps me blend in?”

  He was too smart and too observant. Those were questions I didn’t want to answer.

  Because he was beautiful in it.

  Because I wanted to watch him in it all night.

  Because being on his arm would distract me from the fact that I was watching the first guy I’d ever loved marry the first girl who had ever hated me. Hell, who still hated me.

  “Iker, you couldn’t blend in if you tried. Trust me. You’re too much—” I let go of his cufflinks and waved my hands in front of his torso. “Too much everything. Besides, you looking better than any of the other plus-ones is bigger than a ‘fuck you’ flag. It’s like a ‘fuck you’ banner behind a plane. Or skywriting a gigantic middle finger on their wedding day.”

  His lips lifted, and his eyes narrowed in a quizzical way, like he was trying to figure me out.

  “What?” I asked, fidgeting with my hands. His sudden scrutiny was more than a little unnerving.

  “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” he said quietly.

  The guy had a great poker face, because I had absolutely zero clue if that was a good thing or an awful thing.

  “Thank you,” I responded instead.

  He laughed, the dimple making its appearance. Lick it. I shook my head. The hell would I be doing anything of the sort. He was an employee for the week, and I was pretty sure that qualified as sexual harassment. Then again, the way I’d just checked out his ass and all the other parts of him definitely crossed the line.

  “So, can we get out of here?” He sounded so hopeful.

  “Sure, as soon as he finishes fitting you for your suit.”

  “My what?” he asked, eyebrows raising.

  “Unless you have one you’re fond of? It’s for the rehearsal dinner. You can’t wear the tux to both events.”

  His jaw clenched once. Twice. The dimple looked sexy, even when he was irritated.

  “I seriously need a full suit for the rehearsal?” Those words were a mixture of question and quasi-accusation.

  “Well, yeah. What other option is there?” I finished the question slowly and steadied myself for any answer he might give—clearly even expecting toga to be an option he’d throw out.

  “Shirt and tie,” he suggested.

  “Oh, of course!” I opened up my phone so I could email the itinerary to him.

  “Finally, something normal,” he muttered.

  “You’ll need those for under the suit, naturally. You’d look a little odd without it. Not that you wouldn’t have the chest to pull it off. I’ve seen your arms, and can pretty much assume that’s the status quo all over.” I waved my hand in front of his torso.

  He sucked in a deep breath and focused his attention behind me as his hands clenched.

  “Shall we start?” Oliver asked.

  “Ten thousand?” Iker whispered so only I could hear.

  “Yep,” I answered, just as quiet. “Plus, all the clothes are on me. Now you’ll never have to rent a tux again!”

  “For all the black-tie events I go to.” The sarcasm was thick enough to choke a horse.

  “It never hurts to have a well-stocked closet,” I argued.

  “So, a suit,” Oliver interrupted, bringing over samples. “We need to choose quickly if you want these altered in time.”

  “Then let’s get to it! Oh, and he might need a few polos and some casual slacks, too,” I added.

  “For what?”

  “The barbecue, of course.”

  Our gazes met and held, frustrated browns facing off against smiling blues.

  “Ten thousand,” I reminded him with a bright smile. I’d already given him the first five grand to ensure he actually followed me into the formalwear store.

  He sighed, then answered my smile with a forced one of his own.

  “Bring on the polo shirts.” He was going to lose it when I mentioned the khakis and dress shoes as well. Oh well. All was fair in love and war, and this game we were playing had a little bit of both running throughout.

  “Miss Vaughn, it’s good to see you. Are you joining your father on the course today?” the doorman asked as Iker and I walked into the golf club the next day. I had to give him credit, I wasn’t sure he was going to show after the fitting yesterday. He was clearly out of his element and playing along was taking a concentrated effort on his part. He didn’t bother to hide the sneer on his face when the valet took the keys to my Beamer.

  “Oh, no, thank you, Tim. We’re just here for lunch.” Lunch lessons, really, but Tim didn’t need to know that.

  “Excellent. I hope you enjoy yourselves,” he finished with a polite smile toward us both as he left us standing in the foyer.

  “Not likely,” Iker muttered, taking in the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor twenty feet above us, the large fireplace, seating area, and the floor-to-ceiling drapes.

  Meanwhile, I took him in.

  He wore a pair of olive dress shorts and a black polo—both of which he’d picked out yesterday at Oliver’s. The fabric stretched across his muscles, dipping into the curves and hollows of his back, but left his arms bare, where ink covered the rest of his skin to the wrist. I wanted a closer look at the designs because I was curious about the things important enough to him, so much so that he was going to wear them on his skin forever.

  “This is a golf club?”

  I bit back my instinctive response of well, yeah, and looked at the room again, trying to see it through his eyes.

  The seating arrangement in front of the hearth wasn’t necessarily comfy as much as it was polished and coordinated. The banister gleamed and the ceiling felt cathedral-high.

  “I guess it is a little much,” I admitted.

  “A little?” He sounded incredulous and almost judgmental.

  “It’s just...the club. It’s where I learned to swim, took tennis lessons in the summer, golf lessons for one very long, very painful, six-week session.” I shrugged.

  He looked down at me with that quiet, intense scrutiny I was beginning to get used to. It seemed to appear whenever the differences between our worlds were made painfully obvious, yet neither of us wanted to draw any more attention to the situation. It was weird, but the look often left me feeling lacking in some way.

  “Where did you learn how to swim?” I asked, leading him down the hall.

  “The Y.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of the same.”

  He stared at me.

  “Well, they both need memberships, right?” I muttered.

  He didn’t dignify that with a response as his hand spanned the small of my back, guiding me to the right of the walkway as a group of golfers passed.

  More than a few heads turned, looking Iker up and down.

  “Are you sure I don’t need to get a long-sleeved shirt?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I assured him. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  That damn dimple made another appearance at my comment.

  We passed the pro shop, and then the expanse of glass doors that led out to the pillared terrace and putting green.

  “I feel like I’m going to get kicked out,” Iker mumbled.

  “Over the tattoos? No way. Not with the exorbitant amount of dues my family pays to use the facilities. Besides, it’s not like you’re in jeans. That would most definitely get us kicked out,” I promised with a nod as we came to the dining room hostess. “Hi there, Patricia, how is your day?”

  Her smile was wide, and didn’t falter when she saw Iker at my side.

  “Miss Vaughn! My day is going well, and you?”

  “Wonderful. We have reservations—”

  “I’ve got you right here,” she assured us. “If you’ll follow me?”

  She led us through the dining room, to a table that sat along the wall of glass windows.
“Will this do?”

  “Perfect,” I assured her. We were still situated in a part of the dining room, but secluded enough for our purposes.

  She nodded, and a waiter appeared, stepping forward to pull out my chair.

  “Thank you,” I told him as I sat, before he assisted with scooting in the wing-backed chair.

  “I’ve got it,” Iker told the waiter before he could approach his side, quickly seating himself.

  “Of course, sir,” the waiter remarked, quickly blinking away his surprise. “Can I get you started with drinks before your courses arrive?”

  “Lemonade, please. Thank you...Michael,” I finished after reading his engraved name tag.

  “I’ll have a Coke. Thank you,” Iker ordered, tugging at his collar.

  “He wasn’t going to seat you,” I told him, my lips quirking upward as Michael left.

  “Yeah, I figured that out.” He studied the golfers on the putting green for a moment before turning back to me. “Courses?”

  “I had them change up the menu so you’d get the full experience of over-indulgence that you’ll be confronted with this week.”

  “Are you trying to train me?” One raven eyebrow quirked up questioningly. “I’m not a pet. And last time I checked, I was already housebroken. You know that, right?”

  “I’m sorry?” I adjusted the fabric of my sundress to keep my legs from sticking to the leather chair.

  “You want to shock your family. We’ve already covered that.” He leaned forward on his elbows, narrowing the distance between us.

  “Okay?” I couldn’t help but lean in too, keeping my hands folded in my lap.

  “So, why train me? Why the lunch? The golf club? I checked the itinerary and this isn’t on it.” Again, he was too smart, quick to pick up on things that weren’t explicitly laid out in front of him.

  Because I’d wanted to see him again, for starters—not that I was going to say that. It was one thing to hire a fake date, and quite another to actually like him and want to spend time with him outside of the monetary obligations.

  “I thought you might like a glimpse of what you’re walking into.” I gave him the partial truth. “And as for training, there’s a big difference between making them uncomfortable”—I nodded toward the dining room—“and having you be uncomfortable.”

  He glanced at our dining companions, none of whom were interested in us. “Jeans will really get you kicked out?”

  “Club rule.” I shrugged.

  “Ok, Country Club Girl. Teach.” His dimple appeared as he grinned at me.

  My chest stuttered, which reminded me to breathe. He was unlike anyone I’d ever been attracted to, and yet made me wonder how in the hell I’d ever found Ken-doll-types appealing. Iker was about a hundred times more fascinating, and I’d only known him a few days.

  “Elbows off the table,” I ordered.

  He laughed, but did it, moving his forearms to the upholstered arms of the chair. “Too easy.”

  “Oh, yeah? We’ll see how you feel in about an hour.” I smirked.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  It was on.

  Dishes started arriving, and my back straightened, eight years of cotillion and etiquette courses kicking in.

  “This one,” I corrected him as he reached for his salad fork. I picked up the tiny-tined shrimp fork and waved it.

  “That’s too small,” he argued.

  I arched an eyebrow, and he picked up the shrimp fork, grumbling as he started in on the appetizer.

  “Outside in,” I instructed him with silverware. “Tear each individual piece of bread from the roll before buttering.”

  That one got me a set of rolled eyes.

  By the second course, I thought he was going to quit.

  “It’s cold!” he sputtered, putting his spoon back in the soup.

  “It’s supposed to be,” I told him.

  “Tiny forks. Cold soup. What the hell is wrong with rich people?” he questioned, shaking his head. “My abuela’s menudo is way better than this.”

  “Elbows,” I reminded him, and he promptly withdrew them. “Spoon the soup away from you, that way it won’t splash your clothing.” I demonstrated.

  “Not a problem, because I’m not eating that shit—stuff,” he corrected himself when an older gentleman glared at us.

  I laughed, barely covering it with my napkin.

  The meal passed with frustrated sighs—his—and laughter—mine. He caught on quickly, his eyes flickering back and forth over his place setting, taking in the details.

  “How the hell do you remember all that?” he asked after we’d finished. “How can you even enjoy what you’re eating with all those rules?”

  I signed my name on the bill that would go directly to our membership account.

  “Years of instruction. Practice. I wasn’t allowed into a formal dining room, even out in public at formal functions, until I’d mastered it.” I shrugged.

  “Soup and everything?”

  “Soup and everything,” I confirmed, trying to recall. “I think I was nine before my parents permitted it.” I’d been so proud, my back straight as I sat in that seat, feeling like an adult.

  “You knew all of this by nine?” he questioned, rising from the table.

  “For the most part.”

  Iker waved off the waiter and pulled out my chair himself.

  “You learn incredibly fast.” I stood, smoothing my hemline.

  “I do,” he agreed.

  “And you’re so humble,” I teased as we crossed the dining room. Sure, there were stares—how could there not be? Iker was huge, tatted up, and walked like a predator, aware of everything and everyone around him. “Sorry about the stares. Maybe the tattoos are a little much for this crowd.”

  He looked down at me, the skin between his eyebrows puckering. In laughter or astonishment, I wasn’t sure.

  “I happen to like them,” I admitted, heat creeping up my neck. It was the curse of being blonde and pale. It was hard to hide your emotions when your own body set itself off like a rising thermometer.

  “You think it’s just the tattoos?” His tone was arctic cold.

  Now it was my forehead crinkling as we walked toward the foyer of the club.

  “I stood out like a sore thumb. Hell, the only other guys who looked like me in that room were wearing name tags.”

  I blinked.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I knew what I was getting into. I’m going to hit the john. You okay here?”

  I nodded. Of course I was okay here. This was where I fit in, almost like a second home.

  A group of girls came out of the pro shop, all smiles and shopping bags. Their tennis skirts were all the same length. Their shirts may have been different colors, but they were all sleeveless polos. All five of them wore white Broadmoor sun visors with their high ponytails bobbing back and forth.

  They were all variations of the same cookie, made with the same Stepford-shaped cutter.

  “Oh my God! Langley!”

  And apparently, I was also one of them, just dressed in different attire today.

  The girl in the center raised her arms, bags included, and ran on her tiptoes over to me.

  “Nessa,” I said in greeting as she kissed my cheek.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, her perfectly aligned teeth whiter than snow.

  “Around? I go to CC—”

  “We’ve missed you for doubles!” She ran me right over, and the other Stepfords nodded in agreement, like she’d pulled a string as their puppet master.

  “Oh, I haven’t been playing much.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, I understand. I wouldn’t want to hang around here, either, if I were you.”

  My spine stiffened.

  “I mean, how awful is it for you that Richard is marrying Camille? Is it super awkward at home?”

  They all shifted, leaning in. Gossip was as valuable as gold with this crew.

  “It’s...fine,”
I responded, knowing if I said anything else, it would get back to Camille before the valet could pull my car around.

  Nessa’s eyes narrowed, deciding whether or not to believe me.

  “Really. It’s fine,” I gave her my practiced, fake smile. “I’m in the wedding and everything. They’re a perfectly matched couple and I couldn’t wish anything for them other than my best.”

  At least that was the truth. They were both assholes who deserved each other, and my best was a giant “fuck you” in the form of a very tatted-up, military hottie who was coming out of the bathroom at any moment.

  “But still, doesn’t it grate on you a little? I mean, she’s your sister!” Nessa dropped her voice to a stage whisper.

  “Stepsister,” I corrected her out of habit.

  “And Richard was the catch of our class. He’s going to law school and everything, right?”

  Damn, the girl was digging deep for the dirt, but I wasn’t going to give her even one granule of sand.

  “He’s still a junior in college, just like the rest of us.” How could someone who was only twenty-one be defined as the catch?

  “Right, right, but all of us just thought that it would be you two until the end of time!”

  If I got any stiffer, I was going to snap like a brittle twig. What was it about bitches who needed to pick at scabs? Were they hoping that seeing my blood would make their own wounds and insecurities hurt a little less?

  “Well, thank God they didn’t last, otherwise I would have missed out,” Iker’s voice came from behind me just a second before his arms pulled me back against his very firm chest, wrapping just under my breasts, his tats on full display for their wandering eyes.

  My entire body melted because I was suddenly boneless from his touch.

  Nessa’s eyes widened, and the others followed suit. Their gazes lingered on his tattooed arms, the muscles rippling as he adjusted his hold on me.

  “Oh my,” Nessa said softly. “Aren’t you just…” Her gaze shifted to me. “No wonder you’ve been hard to peg down this summer. Rebellion looks good on you, Langley. And he most certainly looks better in person than he did on your Instagram.”

  I bristled.

  “You ready to get out of here, baby?” he asked, ignoring Nessa and leaning down so his lips brushed my temple.