Chapter 31
Spencer
T
here are twelve of us on this date.
I have no idea how this is possible. How can I talk to Lyra, let alone get near her with this many men, all wanting the same thing?
I want to be annoyed at Lyra for letting this happen. For not giving me a chance to talk to her, explain why I walked out of the last date.
And then I realize she expects me to be annoyed. Possibly even wants it because we communicate the best when we’re angry at each other.
And I’m sure she knows why I left the brewery.
I tuck the irritation down deep and follow the group out to the back lawn of the hotel.
There’s no beach area here; the waves come straight from the North Atlantic, and while the constant crashing is picturesque as well as relaxing, no one should step foot in the water. It’s cold, it’s rough and it’s rocky, with a wall built up to keep the worst of the waves off the lawn.
We group around Grayson and Rue, with six camera people standing around. At least this part isn’t being filmed.
It’s taken some time to get used to the constant cameras, but anyone who ends up with Lyra will need to expect that.
“Let me explain what’s going on here,” Grayson calls over the din of the men who aren’t hiding their excitement.
I should be that excited.
I am that excited—I can’t wait to see Lyra, but I’m also nervous about what they’re going to make us do.
While wearing suits and tuxedos, and, in one case, a kilt.
We all agreed that Jon has the best calves for the kilt.
“I’m happy to report that we won’t be going anywhere near the water today,” Grayson says loudly. “On my season, I ended up in the water, and can we say chafing?”
Laughter all around, and Grayson grins.
He’s very good at this host thing.
“You all look amazing once you’re cleaned up… but you might not stay clean.” He motions behind him, where a bit of an obstacle course is set up, with a throne-like chair at the far end.
Rue claps her hands. “Gentlemen, this is going to be fun. Now, first thing will be the catwalk, where you can show yourself off to Lyra. Who is coming out—” She checks her watch. “Any minute now. Get in line, please, and cameras start rolling.”
It’s chaos for five straight minutes, and then it just—works.
Lyra comes out of the ballroom door on Odin’s arm, followed by Sophie and Camille. My sister is in purple, while Camille is wearing hot pink, which should clash with her hair but instead, gives her an amazing glow.
And the way Odin glances behind him suggests he clearly thinks so too.
But once I see all of Lyra, she’s all I can look at.
I’ve seen Lyra in all types of dresses. I’ve been her escort at countless parties and galas, and I’ve held her in my arms as we’ve danced.
I’ve seen her look beautiful—she is beautiful—but she’s never stolen my breath like she does now.
Odin escorts her to the throne at the end of the runway and steps away, leaving Lyra facing us.
There are mutters and whispers, whistles and cheers, and Lyra waves before dropping into a curtsy even better than the one she once gave to the Queen of England.
But instead of settling onto the throne to let us start, which is what I think she’s supposed to do, Lyra starts down the wooden runway.
Hips swaying, arms swinging, and silver shoes peeking out from under her skirt, Lyra looks like she was made for a catwalk.
The guys erupt with cheers as she reaches the end, blows a kiss to the group, and turns to retrace her steps.
“And that’s how you do it,” Grayson cries over the din. With a last wave, Lyra takes her seat. “Rand, you’re up.”
Rand, cheeks as red as his hair, dressed in a bold striped grey suit, does his best to copy Lyra’s walk, even dropping a curtsy when he pauses in front of the throne.
She’s laughing as much as the rest of us, and it lightens the palpable nerves.
At least mine, anyway.
One by one, we head down the wooden runway, each trying to put their personality into the walk and how we pause in front of Lyra.
There are a lot of bows and a few curtsies, although no one pulls it off like Rand.
Boone, who is the most intimidating one here, drops to one knee and kisses Lyra’s hand.
Dylan, the firefighter, strikes a pose before he starts stripping off his jacket and tie, and managing to get his shirt off before he reaches Lyra, and then tosses it to her.
Jon stalks like he’s possessed by a panther, and Leo pretends to dance.
“No fair—he was just on Dancing with the Stars,” Rand grumbles good-naturedly.
Ashton struts, hands in pockets, looking like he does this every day, even though he’s wearing the most obnoxious bright blue suit with a loud paisley print. Tanner pretends to skate, and Basher, ever present drumsticks in hand, plays a drum solo as he strolls toward Lyra.
And then it’s my turn.
I was so busy watching the others that I never planned what I would do. But as I step forward, it just comes to me. Holding Lyra’s gaze, I walk toward her, hands in the pockets of my dark purple velvet suit like I’m taking a stroll across the square in Battle Harbour to the coffee shop.
At the end, I stand for a moment before her before I extend my hand.