17. Kendall
Chapter 17
Kendall
A knock on the door wakes me just as I’m sucking on Ashton’s neck like a horny Nosferatu.
Turns out, Marcus hired a makeup artist for the bridal party. The woman is good too, as skilled as the pros we have at our shoots in New York. And she’s thoughtful. She brings me breakfast and has me eat it as she works on my nails.
Freshly primped and preened, I exit my room and head outside, where I’m relieved to see that Marcus ordered two limos for us even though we could easily squeeze into one.
“Morning,” says Janie.
“Morning,” I say, giving her a quick onceover. She makes the bridesmaid dress look good, and I tell her so, eliciting a bright smile from her.
“Do you know which car Ashton’s riding in?” I ask.
“He just got into that one,” she says and points at the farthest limo. “Go ahead. There’s still room.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Which one will you take?”
She points to the nearer limo. “Landon wants to talk to Jarrod some more.”
“Ah. I see.” My choices seem to be Ashton or Mr. Suck-Up. “I’m going with you guys, so you and I can catch up.”
She nods at that, but like during the dinner last night, we don’t really get the chance to catch up because her boyfriend word-vomits business ideas to Jarrod the entire ride.
Exiting the limo, I take in our surroundings: a golden-sand beach in front of a rough, gray-blue ocean, with a few surfers bravely catching the tall-ish waves. A boardwalk stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction, and happy beachgoers frolic about, clearly enjoying the warm weather.
“That’s where it will happen.” Janie gestures at the pier in the middle of it all.
I figured as much, given the red carpet leading to our destination, and the fact that the pier has been heavily decorated with flowers and balloons.
“I thought everything was going to be super simple,” I muse.
“And it is, simple… for a billionaire,” she says.
She has a point. The red and white roses covering every empty inch of the pier likely cost more than I make in a year, but the flowers are not gold-plated, which shows definite restraint on Marcus’s part.
“What’s with the cat food jars?” Janie asks.
Huh. She’s right. Right below each balloon is a can of cat food, all different brands.
I grin. “It’s a nod to the first gift Marcus sent Emma—flowers and cat food.”
What I don’t add is that Janie would know this if she hadn’t disappeared on us, resurfacing only because of her boyfriend’s machinations.
No. I will not be negative today. Not on Ems’s wedding day.
I will be so saintly I might even be nice to Ashton… Or if not nice, very good at avoiding conflict.
And… speak of the devil. I spot him, wearing a bespoke tux.
Holy fuck. The effect of Ashton’s signature V-shape is multiplied a thousand-fold, and an air of old-money, commanding arrogance pours out of his every cufflink and lapel. And did I mention the confidence the suit makes him exude? It’s radiating from him like a fucking halo.
Wait. What am I doing? I’m supposed to ignore the manwhore, not ogle him like a tasty morsel.
Yet, when he spots me, his eyes darken temptingly, and I can’t help but lick my lips—a gesture that makes the asshole smirk, like he knows the effect he’s having on me.
“Nice dress,” he murmurs, approaching us.
Janie audibly gulps. “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course,” he says, turning his potent charm on her. “Who else?”
Janie blushes.
Poor girl. Ashton in that tux has clearly jumbled her brain enough to forget that we’re wearing the exact same dress.
And hey, I feel her pain… and wish I were wearing more substantial underwear.
Fuck.
The wedding.
Must focus on it.
Except Marcus and Emma aren’t here. Nor is the priest—assuming that Marcus wants to use one to officiate, and not, say, an Ayn Rand impersonator or the Secretary of the Treasury.
Oh, I know. Maybe I should think about my design project. Would that make me stop darting glances at Ashton?
It’s worth a shot, except I’m still a bit blank when it comes to the details of my project.
Maybe I should design a tuxedo? For women?
No. Too close to the thing that I’m trying to avoid.
A wedding dress?
Hmm. That’s actually not a bad idea. Tierre has done this for a few celebs and?—
“Hello, everyone,” says a beautiful and much-too-cheerful woman holding a giant camera. “My name is Gala, and I’m the MC and photographer for this nuptial jubilee.”
“Hi, Gala,” Ashton says in that deep, melty voice of his.
“Hi,” Gala answers breathlessly. Based on her expression, something has clearly just short-circuited in her brain. Or her ovaries.
“Where do you want us?” Ashton asks.
Snapping out of her daze, Gala has all the groomsmen pose together, then the bridesmaids, and thenit’s time for what I’ve been dreading since she showed up: a group photo.
“I want you there.” Gala points me right at Ashton’s crotch.
I swallow hard and shake my head.
Ashton’s eyes grow flinty, but he doesn’t comment.
“Why not?” Gala asks. “Aren’t you a couple?”
I gape at her. “What? No! What gave you that idea?”
She shrugs. “When you shoot weddings for as long as I have, you develop a knack for these things.”
“Well, we’re not,” I snap.
“Can you stand together anyway?” She bats her eyelashes pleadingly at Ashton. “It would make the picture look more balanced.”
Muttering something under his breath, Ashton walks over and stands by me, which makes me feel like a space object caught in the devastating gravitational pull of Jupiter. My palms sweat, and my heart pitter-patters in my chest as if I’m having a heart attack.
“No. There.” Gala takes me by the shoulders and thrusts me right into Ashton.
Holy shit. There’s an erection poking my ass.
What. The. Fuck? Does Ashton just walk around with a hard-on? Or did he sprout it just to bring forth that heart attack for real?
“Say ‘conjugal,’” Gala squeaks.
Everyone does, but thanks to his proximity, Ashton’s voice is like a purr in my ear… and it reverberates in my nipples.
“Thank you,” Gala says. “I think I got it.”
Thank God. I leap out of range of Ashton’s cock and take a few steps down the pier, just in case it chases me.
I really don’t want a heart attack right now. Or an orgasm.
“Hi, everyone,” says a newcomer who’s dressed like a priest. “The bride and groom are going to be here any minute, so please take your positions.”
After some confusion, we’re told where to stand, and it’s pretty obvious in hindsight: bridesmaids on one side, groomsmen on the other.
A live band shows up, seemingly out of nowhere, and starts playing classical music, a melody I soon recognize as “Billionaire” by Travie McCoy.
I choke back a laugh. This is clearly Emma’s idea of a joke. Then I see Ashton grinning, which ruins my mood.
Predictably, considering the song, Marcus walks down the aisle and stands in front of the priest—with Emma’s grandmother at his side, which is so adorable my eyes get misty.
Smoothly, the band transitions into the traditional “Here Comes the Bride.”
Everyone looks to the base of the pier as Emma appears in a magnificent Vera Wang ivory lace concoction that flatters her curves and makes her pale skin glow. Her hair, styled in a gorgeous updo, looks especially radiant with the sunlight shining on it. Her grandfather is escorting her down the aisle, a proud smile on his weathered face.
Damn it. I should’ve brought some water with me. Between my eyes leaking and the dampness in my panties from being next to Ashton earlier, I’m at risk of dehydration.
“Dearly beloved,” the priest says and proceeds with the charming ceremony, the highlight of which is when one of Emma’s cats walks down the aisle on a leash held by Marcus’s butler. At first, I’m unclear as to why, but then I spot the little pillow attached to the cat’s back.
The fuzzy furball is the ring bearer.
Actually, no. The highlight of the ceremony is when Emma and Marcus read their vows—because they are heartfelt and touching, and contribute further to my dehydration.
“—and now, I pronounce you man and wife,” the priest concludes. Smiling at Marcus, he adds, “You may kiss the bride.”
Oh, wow. The kiss Marcus gives my friend is of the type where, under any other circumstances, everyone would say “get a room.” It’s so passionate and possessive it makes me feel like a voyeur.
Flushing, I look away, only to have my gaze fall on Ashton’s lips.
Shit.
Catching me looking at him, Ashton arches a questioning eyebrow.
I pretend to wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead… with my middle finger.
He slowly shakes his head and mouths, “Very mature.”
Before I can pantomime a response, the newlyweds finally disconnect from their scorching kiss, and everyone claps.
“Time for more pictures!” Gala shouts and proceeds to usher us to the beach, where I manage to somehow steer clear of Ashton’s cock.
“The cocktail hour and reception will be at the mansion,” Gala tells us when she’s done with the million pictures.
On the way there, I take the limo that Ashton isn’t in, and I avoid drinking too much at cocktail hour because if I get drunk, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay civil… or keep my legs shut.
At the reception, I’m happy to learn that we’re allowed to pick our seats, so I sit far, far away from Ashton, which helps me enjoy the scrumptious first course.
“Can I have your attention please,” Gala says into the mic. “First, say hello to your band: The Wedding Smashers.”
Said band begins playing their rendition of “I Gotta Feeling” by The Black-Eyed Peas, but instead of anyone singing, mid-way through, Gala announces, “And now, for the first time as husband and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Carelli.”
The music grows louder, and Emma and Marcus make their grand entrance. Between her hair seeming a touch frizzy and Marcus’s tie being askew, they look suspiciously like they’ve already consummated their marriage.
Their first dance starts, and if I thought their kiss was scorching, the way they sway together is the closest thing to sex in public that I’ve ever seen.
In fact, I’m shocked that they go to sit at their table afterward instead of sneaking out for a quickie.
Soon after the next course arrives, Emma’s grandfather and grandmother each give a beautifully touching speech to celebrate the blissful newlyweds, and I thank the makeup gods above that I’m wearing waterproof mascara. After that, Gala demands that everyone head over to the dance floor.
Nope. Not doing it.
Everyone else goes to dance—that is, except Ashton, who’s also stayed in his seat.
“That won’t do,” Gala says. “The two of you have to get out there.”
I shake my head as a slow song starts playing.
“Please, Kendall.” Emma’s grandmother appears at my elbow to bat her eyelashes at me. “Just this one dance? Emma wants everyone to have a good time.”
“Grandma, it’s fine!” Emma calls from the dance floor.
Shit. Everyone is looking at me and Ashton instead of at the bride and groom. This is precisely what I didn’t want to happen. Ashton must be on the same wavelength because he stoically gets up and makes his way over to my table.
“Care to dance?” he drawls, extending his hand to me.
I don’t exactly have a choice now, do I?
Clenching my teeth, I place my hand in his and do my best to ignore the sparks racing up my arm as he leads me to the dance floor.
Once we reach our destination, he pulls me to him, and air whooshes out of my lungs as we end up in the classic slow-dance position: his left hand holding my right, his other hand on the bare skin just below my shoulder blades, and last but not least, his erection against my belly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whisper so that only he can hear.
He leans down, and his lips brush my ear as he whispers back, “This is a slow dance. I’m holding you in a traditional style. What else did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to have the decency to get rid of that ,” I whisper-hiss, keeping my voice even quieter as I direct my glare to the offending appendage.
“My apologies, fashionista. Whenever you’re around, I have very little control over that .”
That’s a compliment, right? Same as if I told him that his proximity is making my nipples pebble, and my?—
No. Must think unsexy thoughts, like a wedding cake stuffed with sardines, pickles, and spicy mayo. Or a bowl of worms with spaghetti sauce. Or a room full of zombies that have spinach in their teeth.
Nope. Doesn’t work. The more we sway to the music, the more I want to strip that tux from Ashton’s shoulders and?—
The slow song stops. Ashton gently releases me and steps back, his expression unreadable.
Damn him and damn this stupid dance. Now I miss his touch, and that’s insane.
“Thank you, I’m going to my seat now,” I say loudly enough for Ashton—and more importantly, Emma and her grandmother—to hear. “I’m starving.”
Ashton nods mockingly. “I understand. I’m ravenous myself.”
Nostrils flaring, I turn on my heel and stride back to my seat, feeling very proud not to have yelled or otherwise created a scene.
The problem is, I’m still too turned on to enjoy the rest of the evening. I can’t even properly taste the wedding cake that the chef made to look like the chandelier hanging above us. All I can do is sneak glances at Ashton and curse myself for being so susceptible to a good-looking—okay, make that gorgeous—asshole.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Gala says after the cake is distributed. “The newlyweds can’t seem to wait to start their married life, so they’re headed for their bedroom.”
Emma blushes crimson, Marcus grins, and everyone makes inappropriate jokes, even Emma’s grandparents.
As the happy couple head down the corridor toward the master suite, the band starts playing one of Tierre’s favorite songs by AC/DC: “You Shook Me All Night Long.”