Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  Hey, you coming over?

  Oh shit. I totally forgot. I told him I’d be at his place. He’s getting Ivy’s gift delivered today. I’m supposed to get her out of the house and distract her. Ugh. Guilt and annoyance tug at me.

  I’m coming, I text back. While I’m there, maybe I can get Tony to let me borrow TJ to help me track down my girl.

  Chapter Six

  Pascal

  Should I have waited until he woke up? But I was already running late. If I woke him up, he might’ve wanted to talk. What if he wanted to exchange numbers or something?

  Maybe I should’ve left him a note? But I wasn’t looking for anything except the one night. What if he took things the wrong way?

  “Pascal?”

  Or what if—

  “Pascal.”

  I start, turn around and see Curie staring at me. “What?”

  “I asked you about the veils.” She’s holding two in her hands like pompoms. Which fits, since she was head cheerleader in high school. “What do you think?”

  My cheeks grow warm. I’m here at the bridal boutique to help Curie finalize everything for the wedding in two weeks. But instead I’m obsessing about Whiskey, who I’ll probably never see again.

  I clear my throat. “Well… Your gown is pretty simple, so I think the veil can be little fancy.”

  She lifts the one with sequins and lace trimming. “So, this one?”

  “Yeah, uh-huh. And it’ll reflect the sun, so you’ll look extra radiant.”

  “Great.” She turns to the hovering salesclerk. “This one.”

  The clerk jots down Curie’s choice and then takes both veils to put them back.

  Curie loops an arm around mine. “Are you okay? You’ve been really distracted all morning.”

  “I’m okay,” I say, weirdly reluctant to talk about it until I’m more certain what I think about Whiskey. I’m still mulling the whole evening over, and all the dirty things we did. Until last night, I honestly didn’t know you could come from just—

  “Is it that guy from the club?”

  I look at her earnest face. The same as my own, but different. Softer. Lit up with love.

  Whiskey is nobody now. Well, he’s somebody I slept with, but I’m never going to see him again. On the other hand, it isn’t like Curie is oblivious to the fact that I’m in the same red dress as last night.

  “Yeah.”

  “How was he?” She grins.

  “Pretty, uh… You know.”

  Even though I’m a fully grown woman, somehow telling my sister about the hot stranger makes me blush like a teenager with her first crush. It’s crazy, too, because I’ve never giggled or blushed over a crush before, first or otherwise.

  “Oh-ho!” Curie’s aquamarine eyes sparkle like stars. “You’ve got the look. He was good, wasn’t he?” She nudges me.

  The butterflies are back in my stomach. This time, they’re fluttering so hard and fast that I feel the heat in my belly. I lower my voice. “Amazing. Like, he knew exactly what I needed.”

  “Good for you.” She leans closer. “So where does he fall?”

  “Definitely top three.” I tap my chin. “No, that’s unfair to him.”

  “So…top two?”

  I shake my head, then point my index finger upward.

  Curie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise. “Better than Brian? Wow.”

  “Oh my God. A whole ’nother order of magnitude.”

  Curie laughs. “So what’s his name?”

  “We, um, decided not to use our real names.” My tone is super casual. It seemed like such a great idea to keep our identities secret last night. But now, in broad daylight and with no alcohol flowing through my veins, it feels…a tad silly.

  “You don’t know the name of the guy you slept with?”

  “Shh!”

  My sister leans in and hisses, “The guy you just said was the best you’ve ever had? And you didn’t get his name, not even after?” She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What if you want to see him again? Or maybe he might want to see you again. The experience could’ve been mutually mind-blowing.”

  Hot jitters shoot through me as the memories from last night flash in my head. Oh, he had a great time, too. The man was insatiable. “I know, I know, but I need to focus on my career. If I don’t get promoted this year, I might as well get LOSER tattooed across my forehead. In all caps.”

  “You won’t have to. There’s no way you’re not getting promoted this year. You’re one of the smartest and hardest-working people there is. Dad has to know that. Everybody else at the firm does.”

  I smile because there isn’t any better response. Curie’s being supportive, but she doesn’t really understand the depth of my anxiety.

  I pray she’s right about this year, but there are no guarantees. Dad refuses to tell me why he won’t move me up, except to say that he doesn’t want any appearance of nepotism, which is understandable but also totally unfair. My work is just as good as—if not better than—all the men who started with me and who already managed to score promotions.

  I pack away my resentment with some effort. It won’t do me any good to dwell on stuff I can’t control.

  “I studied the qualifications of everyone who either started with me or after and got promoted,” I say. “You know what I found?”

  I wait a beat, but I’m not really expecting a response. There’s no way Curie can possibly know the results of my analysis.

  “What?” she says.

  “I found out none of them had a serious relationship.”

  “You looked that deep?”

  “Of course.” I’m just that thorough. Or desperate.

  “So they were celibate for…how many years is it?”

  “No, no, no. I’m sure they hooked up here and there to blow off steam, but there was nothing serious, you know? So it’s pretty obvious. The evaluation committee wants somebody who’s married to the firm. Good thing I discovered it in time.”

  “That’s crazy,” she says. “Almost everyone at the top is married.”

  “Yeah, but that’s later. I can’t be a VP until I get promoted out of being a junior analyst first.”

  Her jaw slackens, her eyes growing wide. “So your Mr. Amazing Lay never had a chance? Even if he could be The One?”

  “Well, maybe not never.” I clear my throat, shifting because Curie’s making my findings seem a little ridiculous. “Just, you know…later.”

  “Except you were so determined to keep it casual that you didn’t even get his name. How are you going to find him later, after you become a VP?”

  Good point. I wasn’t thinking very clearly last night. Hormones aren’t the best for clarity. But if we were meant to be, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.

  Besides, there are over three billion men in the world. Surely I can find someone suitable later, even if it’s not Whiskey.

  But my stomach twists hard at the idea of never seeing him again.

  “Maybe I’ll hang out at Z again,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Is he even from around here?”

  “Um.” I never asked, but she might be right. He could just be visiting.

  Curie checks texts on her phone. “I’m having brunch with Joe. Do you want to come?”

  I start to say yes, then catch myself. Instead of going with her and Joe, I should go back to the hotel. If nothing else, I owe Whiskey more than fifty dollars for the room. I only left him that little because it’s all I had in my purse this morning, and I was running too late to grab more from an ATM.

  But that doesn’t mean fifty dollars is enough to wipe the slate clean. I prefer to keep financial transactions tidy, without one person owing another. I’m a modern, independent woman with my own money. No reason he should pay for the whole thing when I used the room too.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “Nobody likes having a third wheel on a romantic lunch date. Besides, I need to go home and get some sleep.”

>   “Ha ha, I’ll bet. It’s a shame, though. If he was that good, he’s definitely worth exploring more with. He could be the one for you.”

  It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, to see if we’re compatible out of bed, too? “Maybe I’ll run into him after the promotion.”

  “The next few weeks aren’t going to make or break anything.” She squeezes my hand. “Don’t stress over it. You’ll only end up second-guessing yourself and making silly mistakes.”

  Curie is one of the smartest people I know, and she gets me better than anybody. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  We say goodbye in front of the boutique. I get in my car and drive to the Aylster Hotel. I give my key to the uniformed valet, but tell him, “I’m visiting someone. I’ll be out soon.”

  Probably. Or maybe not so soon, if I’m lucky.

  And the little belly flips are screaming, Get lucky! Get lucky, get lucky, lucky, luckyluckylucky.

  I step inside the lobby. In the corner opposite of the front desk, I spot an ATM. I withdraw five hundred dollars. Even for a suite, that should be enough. I mean, are they really going to charge more than a thousand dollars a night?

  As I make my way down the hall to the suite, my heart thumps. Each step makes my insides throb, the flesh between my legs becoming slicker and hotter.

  God, I’m acting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. What am I, a nympho?

  I’m only here to give Whiskey the money to cover the half the room. There’s not going to be any second screwing because I have plans—Pascal’s Promotion Plan.

  My subconscious doesn’t buy it. It whispers what I want is more than one night with him. So I’m not the nympho here, it’s my subconscious. But it’s been deprived. The orgasms I had before Whiskey were nice little bangs. He gave me nuclear explosions.

  When I arrive at the room, I see the door propped open.

  Did he think I’d come back? If so, that’s awfully confident of him. Not that I could blame him after the number of times I came in his arms.

  My cheeks warm, I push it in and call out, “Whiskey?”

  A few rapid, thick-soled steps hit the floor. I flip my hair over my shoulder and paste on a bright smile, ready to face him. He might’ve been slightly irritated I left without a goodbye, but I’m back. Sooner than I expected, too.

  A middle-aged woman in a white uniform comes out.

  I blink, deflating like a punctured soccer ball. Housekeeping.

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for the guest in this room…?”

  “He checked out.”

  Already? Don’t suites come with late checkouts? “Did he leave a message?”

  “I didn’t see anything here. But you should check with the front desk.”

  Right. A great suggestion. I shouldn’t bother this woman while she’s trying to do her job. “Thanks for your help.”

  I get inside an elevator, going down toward the lobby. I tap the shiny floor gently with one foot. Damn it. I didn’t think he’d check out so quickly. If I had a room like that, I’d linger. Take a nice hot soak in the huge sunken tub I saw in the bathroom.

  But it’s really for the best, I tell myself. The more you linger, the more you talk, the more trouble you get into. Every legal drama has the attorney hero telling everyone to shut up. Hell, you can’t even talk to your spouse if you’re going through a divorce. This is the universe trying to protect me.

  Now, if I can just convince my heart…

  I should go home, but I tell myself he deserves to be paid for the half the room. So that’s the only reason I trot toward the spotless marble toward the front desk when the elevator opens.

  A uniformed clerk smiles at me, her golden name tag embossed with MEL. “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Aylster Hotel. How may I help you?”

  “Hi. I’m looking for a message that one of your guests might have left for me.” I give her the room number.

  She taps a few things into her computer. “What’s your name?”

  “Pascal Snyder. But he wouldn’t have left a message under that name. He calls me, um, Skittles.”

  She looks up, then her gaze drops for a fraction of a second to my less-than-fresh, slightly wrinkled dress.

  I squirm. Her expression doesn’t change, but she isn’t an idiot. She knows exactly what Whiskey and I were doing in the suite. This is a hotel. We didn’t get a room to pray together.

  I straighten my shoulders and stiffen my spine. “Like the candy,” I add.

  “Of course. Just one moment, please.”

  She slips into the back office. I wait, drumming my fingers on the cool, smooth countertop. Even though I didn’t give him anything except for the fifty dollars this morning, he probably left me something. Curie’s usually right about men, and like she said, he probably wants to see me again. He would also predict—just as he predicted what I needed in bed—that I’d regret sneaking out.

  Mel returns. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for you. Not under either name.”

  My shoulders sag, and something between regret and chagrin dulls the fluttering butterflies in my belly. “I see.” I think rapidly. I don’t want to wave a white flag. Not yet. “Do you mind letting me know his name?”

  Her composure finally cracks. “Excuse me?”

  “His full name. I…didn’t catch it.” I flush, knowing how this sounds. “I want to get in touch with him.”

  The professional mask returns, but her eyes flicker. I don’t need to be a psychic to read her thoughts: Wow, what a stalker fail.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss Snyder.”

  I grasp for the most persuasive argument I can think of. “You know I was up there with him.”

  “Yes, I gathered that.” Her smile says, Congratulations, ho. “But if he didn’t tell you who he is, I’m afraid there’s really nothing we can do. For security reasons, we cannot give out a guest’s personal data without a warrant.”

  Oh for Pete’s sake. She’s just doing her job, but I hate it that she’s doing it so irritatingly well. The firm expression on her face says she’s not changing her mind until a new ring forms around Uranus.

  I try a different tack. “I just want to give him some money for the room. I owe him half the amount.”

  “If he wants to be reimbursed”—she doesn’t say further, but she’s thinking it—“I’m sure he’ll contact you.” Underneath her smooth voice is a mix of amusement and a tinge of derision. Must be the training. How to Smile Hospitably But Still Be Bitchy 101.

  I spot two security guards who… Did they just put their hands on their weapons? The last thing I need is getting beaten up then tossed in jail for stealing the information off her workstation, so I nod with a graciousness I don’t feel. “Thanks for your help.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I turn around and leave, my shoulders threatening to slouch. No, no. I stand tall, doing my best to pretend I’m not feeling a bit of disappointment. It’s better that I don’t know who he is or have a way to contact him. Definitely. For the best.

  If I tell myself that a hundred times, I’ll start to believe it for real, even as a small part of me wishes I could get in touch with him so we could explore…that thing we were going to have after my promotion.

  Chapter Seven

  Court

  Tony’s new place is huge. Not that the penthouse he had before was small, but the new mansion could be converted into a boutique hotel.

  Unlike some of the overpriced places in the area, his doesn’t have a pool. Instead, it has a shallow water garden. Ivy isn’t the best swimmer, and has a problematic history with water.

  I tip the Uber driver, who seems a little awed, and get out. Hope he doesn’t get distracted and hit something on his way back. That little cherub statue over there probably costs more than what he makes in a year.

  When I ring, a housekeeper answers the door. She’s dressed in a pristine shirt and tidy slacks. Her comfortably roun
ded face creases with a big, welcoming grin. “You must be Court. Tony told me you’d be coming by. I’m Shelly.”

  “Hi, Shelly.” I smile.

  “Come on in.”

  She leads me into the foyer. Lots of shiny marble, chandeliers dripping crystal tears and bright natural light. The interior is classy and modern at the same time, nothing like the sterile place Tony used to live in. Ivy clearly had a hand in the design.

  Shelly brings me to a living room large enough to host a football game. My eyes zero in on its best feature—a fully stocked bar in the far corner.

  Shelly leaves, closing the door behind her. I spot Edgar and Tony in armchairs set near huge bay windows. A couple of thick rugs sit in front of a huge unlit fireplace.

  Edgar is sturdy and physically imposing, like our dad. Unlike Tony and me, he took after our sire in more ways than one. That includes his drive to see Blackwood Energy succeed and grow even more. And not even an azure polo shirt and shorts can diminish the stark intensity of his presence.

  Tony, on the other hand, is more like me, at least in appearance. We both got our looks from our mom. He’s totally relaxed in a simple V-neck green shirt that matches his eyes and loose, lightweight khakis. His pose is lazy and content—Ivy’s doing. She’s done a lot to turn him from a tormented soul into this epitome of satisfaction and bliss.

  “Where’s Ivy?” I say, ready to whisk her away so my whipped bro can prep for their first anniversary.

  “Julie came by this morning to take her shopping,” Tony says.

  “Oh. Well, okay. Cool.” That’s probably more fun for Ivy than hanging out with me. Julie’s not only hilarious, but Ivy’s best friend. “Was she my backup?” He never said anything about having one.

  “Nope. She just showed.”

  “Why did you ask me to come, then?”

  “Because Julie wasn’t here when I texted you.”

  “So I came here for nothing,” I say in token protest, then move to the bar and pour myself a drink, which is clearly the least I deserve. Not for showing up, but for putting up with how the day began.

  Tony quirks an eyebrow. “Not nothing, apparently.”

  “Why don’t you get me a drink too?” Edgar says.