Neil kissed my nose. “On that note, let’s go get some actual dinner, before I cannibalize one of our guests.”
The Grand Ballroom was lit far more brightly than the Terrace Room. “Somebody Loves You” by Betty Who played over the sound system as we entered, to the claps and cheers and obnoxious glass clinking to demand a kiss. From there, dinner was a blur. Not because I got wasted off the champagne toasts, I was just super high on endorphins. There were so many well wishers that I barely ate anything; there just didn’t seem time to get a bite. And, oh my god, the glass clinking. My mouth was always too busy to put food in it.
But we were on a schedule, as Shelby reminded us before she herded us off to cut the cake.
I might not get as excited over food as Holli does, but I understood her enthusiasm a bit better once I saw the cake. The inspiration photos and design sketches we’d seen hadn’t prepared me for the sheer size of the seven tiers of white fondant, or the delicacy of the gold-embossed lace. I was nervous about symbolically cutting into it, because I wasn’t sure that the whole thing wouldn’t just topple over on us. Luckily, the baker was on hand to point out the subtle lines pressed into the fondant that showed us where to cut. When Neil put his hand on mine over the handle of the knife, my heart fluttered. I don’t know what it was about a ceremony and a piece of paper—which, yes, I did sign—that made me feel nervous butterflies and full body shivers, like I was falling in love all over again.
I leaned up and whispered, so no one could hear, “I want you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. We should have made a bet as to who would cave to sex in the bathroom first; I would have totally won that, judging from the way his fingers flexed over mine.
“Remember,” he warned me as we both lifted our neatly cut wedges of cake, “we swore we wouldn’t do it.”
“Right,” I said, nodding seriously. “No cake smashing.”
He fed me a delicate bite while I absolutely creamed him with a palm full of cake. I took a step back, out of retaliation range, and he lunged at me, sweeping an arm around my back and pulling me up to kiss my neck with his frosting-smeared face. I squealed and half-heartedly fought him off while, from the corner of my eye, I caught my mom throwing up her hands in frustration. She’d lectured me over and over about how immature that particular tradition was.
The bite I’d gotten from Neil and the bits I’d teasingly kissed from his face was all the cake I got. Brides apparently don’t get to eat at their own weddings, no matter how much the meal cost per plate.
Between songs, Shelby alerted us to our next married couple duty, the one I’d been dreading the most. Our first dance. Dancing in public wasn’t what bothered me. It was fun to go out to a club and grind up on other people to loud music and disconcerting lights. It was not fun, however, to be on display in an environment where one is expected to be graceful. Unlike some couples, who I now regretted mocking in the past, Neil and I hadn’t worked on some elaborate choreography to pull off during our first dance as man and wife. But I wasn’t totally unprepared. We had practiced.
Beneath the high, open ceiling in the den, Neil had pushed back the coffee table and rolled up the rug so that he could impart his wisdom about wedding dances.
“The first thing to remember,” he’d advised me sagely, “is that everyone thinks you got fully drunk in the limo on the way to the reception.”
Of course, there had been no limo on the way to the reception, just a short walk. But I hadn’t pointed it out then, and it made me giggle now as we walked onto dance floor. Neil’s hand curved around my waist, and I imagined we were back at our house, John Legend’s “All Of Me” playing on my phone, rather than the instrumental arrangement for piano and strings performed live now. We started our steps, and I thought of the way it had felt when we’d been gliding around in our socks on the polished wood floor. In our practice, I’d crashed into Neil, and he’d held me on my feet. We’d laughed and fallen down then forgotten about dancing altogether. It was the same feeling now, as I gave in and let him lead me effortlessly around the floor. Even though I was in a beautiful, if not entirely comfortable, evening gown instead of rolled up sweatpants and a faded hoodie, even though Neil didn’t have to curse and snap, “Stop trying to lead, Sophie!” when I stepped on his foot for the millionth time, it felt normal. It all clicked into place; whether we were dressed up all fancy or wearing comfy sweats, whether we were married or not, Neil and I were still just Neil and I. We were the same two people gliding around the famed floor of the Plaza Hotel’s Grand Ballroom as the ones laughing and colliding and not taking anything seriously.
The song was over way too soon.
Once the dance floor filled up and everything started to feel more like a party than a wedding, I loosened up. While Neil danced with Emma, I used Holli to defend my way to the bathroom, where she fished a candy bar from her purse. Eating a Snickers on the toilet wouldn’t be one of my top-ten romantic wedding memories, but after starving all day and needing to pee worse than ever in my entire life, it was definitely in my top-ten urination experiences.
I checked for chocolate smudges on my mouth then went back to the dance floor. The band was playing, “Just The Way You Look Tonight,” and Neil held Olivia in the crook of his arm, her tiny pink fist in his hand as he swayed with her. Her huge eyes were fixed on the silvery light patterns shifting on the ceiling. Neil, on the other hand, saw nothing but her, so I managed to sneak up and tap him on the shoulder.
“May I cut in?” I took Olivia and sniffed her head. “I know it’s weird, because she apparently smells like Emma’s breast milk, but Olivia’s head always smells so good.”
“It’s the smell that gets you,” Neil warned. “It sticks in your nose, and you’re stuck wrapped around their little fingers for the rest of their lives.”
“Like you weren’t going to be, anyway,” I teased. The song was ending, and I spotted Emma coming out to reclaim her child.
“Let’s get off our feet a moment, shall we?” Neil gave Olivia a final kiss before I handed her off to Emma, and we unceremoniously stole two seats at a table near the dance floor.
“Oy, fucko! That’s my chair!” Ian came toward us with a huge, congratulatory smile on his face. Neil got up and offered his hand, but Ian pushed his arm aside and went in for a bear hug instead. When they parted, Ian came to me and took the hand I offered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Always good luck, getting a kiss from the bride.”
“Sit with us,” Neil said, and Ian pulled up an unoccupied chair from the next table.
“Look at the two of you,” Ian said, sighing as he sat down. “Like a pair of salt and pepper shakers. Neil, you’re the salt, on account of the white hair.”
“I do not have white hair!” Neil laughed, but reached up to his head with unconscious defensiveness.
“Nah, mate, you look like you’ve been struck by fucking lightning.” He leaned back with an elbow on the table. “I’m happy for the two of you. I don’t know what you see in him, Sophie, but god bless you for taking him on. And you’ve won the fucking lottery, old man.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Neil agreed.
“Will you now?” Ian jerked his thumb toward the bar. “You want to go have one?”
“I can’t. It was a figure of speech.” Neil put his hand on my knee. “I’m hanging it up.”
“Good idea.” Ian nodded sagely. “But your good ideas won’t get me drunk, so I’ll bid you adieu. I know you have a lot of friends, Sophie’s friends, specifically, who all look like fucking models…”
I scanned the room, seeking out one “friend” in particular. An employee, really.
“Thank you for coming, Ian.” Neil took his hand and shook it. “We’ll be back in two weeks. Maybe you’d like to come round for dinner?”
“Call my secretary when you get back, we’ll set something up,” he promised.
I watched him as he went off toward the bar. My heart did a little skip. Penny was headed to the dance
floor—in a surprisingly sexy violet A-line dress with a plunging neckline. Like something out of a romantic comedy, their paths seemed destined to cross.
And they did, just as Ian saw someone he recognized and turned course, barely missing her.
Damn it.
I sighed and leaned my head on Neil’s shoulder. “I need to go mingle with my family. Why don’t you find your brothers and let them tease you about kidnapping me.”
Kidnapping the bride was apparently a custom out of Viking lore. Runólf and Geir had tried to convince me that it was an important Icelandic wedding tradition, but I’d Googled it on my phone and called them on their bullshit.
We snuck a quick kiss and split up for some family time.
As I approached, Grandma waved me over to the table. Marie had a three-quarters of an empty four pack of Bartles and James fuzzy navel on the table in front of her.
“Where did you get those?” I pointed to the bottles.
She swallowed the drink she’d just taken from wine cooler number four and said, “Chad went out and got these. They didn’t have Mike’s or Smirnoff Ice or anything at the bar.”
“We’ve got Boone’s Farm, too,” Grandma said, pulling a plastic shopping bag from beneath the table. “You want some?”
“Hell, yes, I want some. You got Snow Creek Berry?”
She handed me a bottle of the stuff—it looked like a pink version of Windex—and I unscrewed the top.
“So,” Grandma began, and I could tell she was unhappy with something. “What’s this about you’re not having a dollar dance?”
I nodded as I raised the bottle. “You heard correctly. We are not going to do a dollar dance.”
“Why not?” She spread her hands, the sleeves of her royal blue chiffon tunic nearly catching on her water glass. “People like dollar dances. They get to feel like they’re helping you get a good start on life.”
Grandma was missing the obvious. I took a deep swallow of the “wine”. “Grandma, Neil and I have almost seven billion dollars. We can afford a new coffee maker.”
“Well, I gave you fifty-dollars, anyway.” She rummaged through her purse for a card. “I didn’t put it in the box because it’s cash, and you never know with people.”
I stooped down and hugged her, and slipped the slender rectangular envelope into the band of my strapless bra. “Thanks, Grandma.”
Everyone partied for a while. I did a little drinking, but I cut myself off before I got super drunk—no one wants to see the bride vomit. I took selfies on the dance floor with Holli and Deja. I tried to act cool in front of my friends whenever a legitimately famous person drifted into view—Neil had tons of celebrity work friends we’d had to invite, despite barely knowing any of them. I’d been hoping Prince Harry would crash again, like he had at Neil’s fiftieth, but to Penny’s disappointment, his royal hotness did not appear.
I managed to get a few more dances with my wonderful husband, fitting him in around requests from Rudy and Ian and Michael.
“So, I’m thinking of calling you Mother Elwood now,” Michael said, playfully spinning me under his arm.
“I think you’ll regret that,” I warned. Then, I stubbed my toes against his shoe. “Just like I’m regretting that. Ouch.”
“I’m not going to tell Emma that happened,” he swore. “She’s already deemed your shoes too ridiculous to wear.”
Okay, Emma may have had a point. My strappy black Fendi stilettos with Swarovski crystal embellishments were hot, but they had a four-and-a-half-inch heel. I should have considered optional flats.
The night passed in a rush; I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun. At midnight, like Cinderella, Neil and I made our getaway. The reception would continue into the night for our guests, but we had a plane to catch. I’d changed into a floaty gold silk maxi dress with spaghetti straps that would be comfortable for travel and light and breezy when we arrived in Papeete. We dashed through a crowd of our remaining guests beneath the Baccarat chandeliers in the lobby. My mom caught me for a hug, and Rudy halted us again to kiss both of us on the cheek. Outside, on the steps of the grand entrance, my single friends waited. I tossed my bouquet to them as we hurried to our escape vehicle.
“They’ve decorated the car,” Neil observed through his tightly clenched smile.
“Yup.” I waved to my mom and my aunt Marie, who’d come outside to see our reaction. They looked pleased with themselves for helping.
Neil held the door for me, saying low beside my ear, “They put chalk paint and soda cans on the back of my Maybach.”
I caught Tony’s eye as he closed my door, and he smirked. He’d watched the whole thing happen, and he’d let it. I laughed, and then, I couldn’t stop laughing. My heart bubbled over with a sudden surge of effervescent happiness, and I choked back tears of joy. I blinked and composed myself to smile at our guests as Neil got in beside me.
As we pulled away to the sounds of our cheering friends and family, I turned to Neil. “Wow. So…that was fun.”
“And exhausting.” He leaned against the corner of the door and the seat and slumped down.
“I know. I can’t wait to get these shoes off.” My chest hurt; I was happy to bursting. “At least we’ll be able to sleep on the plane.”
Well, I hoped we’d be able to do more than sleep on the plane. It was our wedding night, after all. I read enough historical romances in high school to know that I was supposed to be ravished tonight.
“About that.” Neil sat up and coughed into his fist. “You stayed reasonably sober, didn’t you?”
I pressed my thighs together. “Mmm, yes, I did.”
“Well, I have a surprise, then.” He reached for me and pulled me close to lean on him. “Go to sleep. We’ve got a drive ahead of us.”
I frowned up at him. “I thought the jet was standing by?”
“I told you, I have a surprise. Now, listen to your husband and do as you’re told.”
I sat up and gave him a warning glare, but he had already dissolved into laugher. “I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “I can’t say that and keep a straight face.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Sophie? We’re here.”
I blinked awake with some difficulty. My mascara had turned into cement while I’d slept. The facade of a building showed through the windows, and it took me a moment to recognize it as the model Pavillon Français on our property. The upward grazed lighting illuminated the nook where the center chamber met two of the outer four rooms. The building was a cross with an octagonal middle, and we were parked between it and the huge fountain in the drive. While the grounds weren’t to scale, the previous owners had gone to the trouble of recreating some of the water features.
We’d celebrated my birthday here, and it had been unbearably romantic, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you just kept around. “I thought you were going to renovate this.”
Neil took my hand and helped me from the car, and I staggered a little on my tired legs. “I did have it renovated. I think you’ll like some of the changes.”
We entered the main salon, the towering center of the building. My heels clicked on the inlaid marble floor. Unlike its counterpart in France, this version of the Pavillon had electric candlelight. Neil took the remote off the wall and turned up the lights, bathing the room in soft, subtly flickering illumination.
One of the “renovations” was quite obvious. A black steel frame stood vertically in the center of the room, shackles dangling from all four corners. A table stood nearby, its gleaming white marble top bearing all sorts of tantalizing goodies. Three paddles, one of unadorned black leather, another that was a bit wider with dulled, square metal studs in a grid, and a larger wooden one with rows of small holes drilled through. A set of nipple clamps. A long black cord threaded through wooden, spring-style clothespins. The wireless wand.
Neil took off his tuxedo jacket and threw it over the back of the Louis XVI chair positioned in front of the frame. Standing there in his white
shirt and black trousers, his silver hair slightly mussed, he looked so, so good.
“Oh my gosh, I bet my makeup is all messed up,” I lamented, and he motioned me closer, meeting me halfway. He hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me up roughly. The delicate silk of my dress rode up my thighs.
He caught my chin and smeared the pad of his thumb over my lower lip. If there was any trace of my dark berry lipstick left behind, it was smudged across my mouth now. Tilting my chin up farther, he said, “It certainly is.”
I gestured to the room around us. “Is this my surprise, Sir?”
“It’s a gift,” he corrected me. “To both of us. You can look in the other rooms, if you’d like.”
Warily, I crossed the salon for the first of the four sets of double doors in the room. I stepped through, and Neil followed behind, turning up the lights as I went. All around the room, pieces of furniture were draped in white drop cloths. I cast him an uncertain glance as I lifted the edge of one, a long, low rectangle on the ground. It was a wide, short table, and on top rested a very familiar shape.
“A Sybian?” I almost clapped my hands with joy.
“You said you wanted to try one. I don’t know why we haven’t yet.” He motioned to another of the shapes doing their ghost impressions. “Have a look there.”
The second one was a complicated-looking piece of machinery with a rod affixed to a wheel, attached to another, smaller flywheel. An electrical cord lay wrapped around the base. If not for the black silicone dildo attached to the machine’s long arm, I would have had no idea what it was for.
“It has a surprisingly powerful electric motor. It’s adjustable up to three hundred strokes per minute, and the horsepower—” At my beleaguered eye roll, he changed subjects. “There’s one more, here.”
He pulled the cover back on the next item, a black steel H-shape with two rods and a dual controller on a long cord. “For double penetration.”
“Are you kidding me?” I twirled around. “I feel just like Belle when the Beast gives her that library.”
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