10. All The Plans （Ethan） #2
No, it’s obvious she has more of an eye for this than she initially let on. When the planner asks for our opinions, after asking politely if I have one, I tell Hattie to choose.
Thank God for small favors.
Sometimes, I wish I knew what was going on in her pretty blonde head.
The process takes hours, yet she doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she just doesn’t notice it passing when she’s so engrossed in girly wedding day fantasies.
I resist the urge to check my watch again.
Eventually, Mrs. Radish leaves, assuring us she’s got the basics—the fucking basics ?—down and she’ll get follow up soon.
“That was fun!” Hattie chirps with a smile that’s way too relaxed after enduring over three hours of style interrogations.
“Fun? Do you stock dictionaries at your bookstore? That’s not the right word.”
She smacks my arm.
“Oh, hush. It’s not every day a girl gets to plan a wedding with an unlimited budget.”
“I thought you wanted to keep it small ?”
She has the grace to flush.
“Okay, so… maybe it can be medium-sized. Maybe?” She bats her eyes.
“She suggested two hundred goddamned guests.”
“Only for the reception! That’s the part where we need to put on a show, right?”
Damn her, I nod.
She has a point.
I would be pissed off, except she’s got the most adorable smile at the corner of her mouth.
I can’t find it in me to be annoyed with her enthusiasm.
“Margot will have a field day whenever you throw her a bone,” I say. “Hell, even after you tell her about all the decisions you’ve made.”
Hattie beams me a heavy look, tucking some hair behind her ear.
“Maybe after she gets over you cutting her out of the process,” Hattie says.
I shrug. Margot’s feelings aren’t my problem.
“She’ll plan her own wedding someday. Assuming she finds a man who can handle her spoiled ass.”
“She will,” Hattie says, rolling her eyes. “But what’s next?”
I check my watch again. “Dresses. They should be here any second.”
“What dresses? Who should be?”
“Stylists from Seventh Haven in Manhattan,” I say. “They specialize in wedding dresses.”
Her eyes light up. “Wedding dresses? You mean—”
“Yeah. You can hardly get married without one,” I say dryly. “From what I understand, they’ll bring you some sample dresses to see what styles suit you and then come up with a unique design for the big day.”
She’s still grinning like a kid in a candy store when I let the army of fashionistas in. After greeting me, they go to work, fawning over Hattie, complimenting her hair and coloring and figure.
She glows like the moon.
“I get to see you model them,” I tell Hattie. “All of them. So I can help you choose.”
She flushes. “That’s not very traditional. The groom isn’t supposed to see the dress before the wedding day.”
“Pages, nothing about this ‘marriage’ is traditional and you know it. So show me.”
She bites her bottom lip as she nods slowly.
And fuck me, I know I should keep my distance. I shouldn’t watch her pose and twirl in an expensive dress for both of our sakes, but I can’t help myself.
It’s not like tradition matters much. I said it myself.
Gramps took a sledgehammer to anything normal about this when he decided to force me into a wedding pact with my little sister’s best friend.
Soon enough, I’ll go back to only seeing her in public, so the chance of me losing my mind over her won’t be an issue then.
Why the hell does that bother me?
I sit and scroll through emails on my phone while Hattie disappears into my bedroom, accompanied by all the ladies.
I wonder what’s taking so long.
At last, the door creaks open.
Hattie’s hair is tied up into a neat knot, leaving her shoulders bare. She’s wearing a cloud.
It’s a full-skirted, lacy, traditional wedding beast.
Sure, it’s pretty, and she looks good in it, but she’d look good in a paper sack as long as it hugs her curves. Diamanté glitters around the bodice, sleek and shiny and modern.
I tilt my head, noticing the hesitation in her eyes.
She’s not sure about it.
Fine.
If she’s not comfortable, I don’t want her wearing it.
“No,” I say authoritatively. Relief flutters across her face. “I’m not sold on you showing that much skin, knowing there’ll be cameras everywhere. Try something more traditional.”
She looks down at herself, tracing some of the lace on her stomach.
“The girls say it’s a statement dress.”
“Statement? It says Vegas strip club.” I lower my voice. “But that’s not the point. Is it even comfortable?”
She takes a few seconds, mulling it over. “No.”
“Then pick something else. They only have a hundred other choices.”
She gives me a quick, hesitant smile. “Okay. Thanks, Ethan.”
“Welcome, Pages.”
Her smile reaches her eyes for a second, then she disappears back in the room. I’m left to twiddle my thumbs until she shows me the next dress.
Chiffon this time.
A smooth, full skirt that gleams in the light. It’s less decorative, but the pinned waist and flowing skirt just doesn’t quite suit her.
“No good?” she asks, correctly reading my expression.
“Nah. Better, though. More you .”
Her face screws up. “What would you know about me , Ethan?”
“When I see it, I’ll know.”
“Fine.” Waving her fingers, she disappears into the room again.
This time, she takes so long that I think they must be having some kind of wardrobe malfunction. But when she finally steps back into view, my brain shuts off.
Holy fuck.
This dress looks molded to her, hugging every curve I’ve done my best not to think about since that kiss on the beach.
The lace bodice is partly sheer, revealing pale skin, dipping low to show off soft, suckable breasts.
The mermaid-style dress skims her hips and flows down her thighs. Small waist, rounded hips.
Fuck.
I’m almost delirious with the need to touch her, to get it off, to peel away that dress and see what’s hiding underneath.
It’s modest, though, showing just enough to make me thirst for more.
“Well? What do you think?” she asks when I don’t say anything. “Do you hate it? I think Mom will kill me if I show up in this.”
“Forget your mother.” My voice is so rough I need to clear it. “That’s the one. Search over.”
“Really?” She smooths a hesitant hand down her waist. “Do you think—”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely no doubt?”
In my head? Yes.
But my cock screams no.
“None. It’ll do you justice, Pages. It fits your shape, without being blinding or giving away too much.”
Her green eyes meet mine.
Something flares in them that makes me shift in my chair. Against my will and better judgment, my cock rises.
“Okay, I’ll… I’ll tell them.” She swallows and nods.
“You can try on the rest if you want, but that’s what I want to marry you in.” My voice is unintentionally gruff. Probably because I’m speaking insanity.
Yet I still can’t look away.
Her nostrils flare and she nods one final time.
The moment she’s gone, I drop my face into my hands.
Stupid, stupid man.
This Jekyll and Hyde attraction is out of control.
That’s what I want to marry you in?
Who am I turning into?
I don’t have time for more complications, let alone the self-inflicted kind.
She’s my baby sister’s best friend and we’re not just doing this for kicks, much less love.
No matter how I tried to make up for it, she’s also the girl I teased relentlessly when we were kids.
Not a girl I can fuck anytime this century.
Only, she’s getting naked in my room. That’s where my mind keeps going. The thought of ripping that dress off her and marking up what’s underneath.
Exposing every inch of that creamy skin for my wolfish mouth.
Her tits.
Her throat.
Her tight little pussy.
Fuck!
When I inhale, I’m snarling, almost inhuman.
This is what leading with my dick does.
I kissed her once and now she’s an unhealthy obsession.
I knew this dress show would pulverize my mind.
The door opens and the gaggle of women exit first, stampeding out with dresses hanging from their hands, offering me smiles and a few giggles as they explain they’ve left Hattie with the dress she’s wearing, since I liked it so much.
“Not to worry!” one of them says. “It’s a stunner, truly one of a kind. Amazing choice.”
I wish I could give a fuck about the dress itself.
Or the only thing that should really matter—Hattie likes it.
Not just because I’m ready to offer up my soul to see it fall off her.
The moment they’re gone, I head into the bedroom.
Hattie stands still in the dress, one hand on her stomach, frowning at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
The silky back is undone so she can step out of it without assistance, and I can see her smooth skin.
Also, the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra.
My imagination spits fire.
Leaning against the doorway, I try to calm down without leaving teeth marks in my wrist like the carnivorous fucknut I am.
Pages doesn’t want me to push her up against the wall and tear that dress off.
No matter how much I might want to.
My cock jerks at the thought and I inhale sharply.
Across the room, Hattie braces both hands on the flare of her hips and pushes.
She frowns, biting her lip as she runs her free hand down her bare arm, pinching her skin between her fingers.
She shakes her head.
Thoughts of shredding her clothes fade as I scowl. “What are you doing?”
She shrieks, leaps a foot in the air, and throws me a shocked glance.
“Holy shit. Do you ever knock? You shouldn’t be in here!”
“Didn’t we establish this isn’t a traditional marriage?” I step forward, unable to help myself.
My fingers itch to touch the dip at the small of her back, just to see if it’s just as soft as it looks.
“You shouldn’t be here, though. I’m not decent.”
“What were you doing?” I ask again, stopping behind her. “From where I was standing, it looked like you didn’t like what you saw in the mirror.”
“It’s not that, it’s just… the dress is insane.” The material is too thick for her to pinch her stomach through it, but it looks like she wants to. “I’m worried it’s a little revealing. That it doesn’t hide enough. Not like the first dress but—”
“Pages. Hattie.” I force my voice to gentle on her name, even though I want her to see all the dark things roaming my mind.
I’m half a second away from losing my sanity.
But that’s the last thing she needs right now.
“I don’t want it to hide anything,” I say. “I didn’t pick this dress because it hides shit. I like it because it shows you off.”
“But my stomach isn’t flat!” Her voice strains high. “And look how big my hips are! Ugh, my skin isn’t even smooth.” She takes my hand and draws it along the lush curve of her hip and down her thigh. “Feel that? That’s years of lobster tacos catching up with me. You can see everything, Ethan.”
Fuck me.
Here I am, staring at my hand on her hip.
“And see that? Bingo wings. And these stupid muffin tops around my boobs?”
Enough.
I swing her around to face me in one quick movement, my hand still on her hip and the other resting on her back.
Dangerously smooth.
Painfully warm.
Silk under my fingers.
“Woman, shut it. You are perfect and I want to marry you, not your fucking mother,” I whisper. I’m done being gentle.
I’m growling, furious that this insufferable girl has so many insecurities about her looks when she’s stunning.
What did her mom’s nagging do to her?
How can she dwell on a little extra cushion so much?
Doesn’t she understand it makes any sane man want to fuck her into next year?
“Ethan—”
“Did I say you could talk yet? Do you want to know what I see?” I jerk her closer so her body goes flush against mine. All the voices in my head telling me to stop are missing. “I see a gorgeous woman I can’t forget. She has curves for miles, roads to filthy fantasies every man dreams of.”
The way she gasps makes me think I’ve gone too far.
But when her eyes meet mine, they’re molten.
I don’t think, I just keep going.
“She has lethal hips and breasts to die for. Everything I’ve been dying to touch ever since I saw you again for this ridiculous agreement. You, Hattie, are Grade A jerk material. And I don’t want to hear you fretting about your weight or any of your mother’s bullshit as long as we’re together.”
She doesn’t say anything.
She just looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.
So I do the only thing I can think of to make her believe me—I hook my hand around the back of her neck and jerk her face to mine.
The kiss isn’t gentle.
With her, I’ve forgotten how to be.
Days of stinging repressed need erupt at once, and I run my hands up and down that lush curve of her hips, squeezing, digging my fingers into her flesh.
I can’t believe she could ever think she’s less than perfect.
“You’re lying. That’s kind of you, trying to build me up, but Ethan, you don’t have to.”
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” I bite off, my mouth still against hers, my words lost against her tongue. “Not one fucking thing, Pages.”
With a moan of surrender, she gives in, melting against my chest as my hands pull fistfuls of expensive fabric and I rip that infernal dress off her shoulders.