Chapter 12
Holland
“I don’t want to do this.”
“I don’t care.”
We’re standing in the hallway of a very nice hotel, bags in tow, staring at a fancy door with a gold 110 on it. It’s a set of double doors, actually, and it’s at the end of the hallway, so I assume it’s a suite. I’m not surprised; this is Phoenix we’re talking about. He probably doesn’t use regular hotel rooms.
I have my wedding dress bag draped over my arm, and it’s heavier than it should be. Wyatt, bless his heart, is carrying the bag that has my shoes, jewelry, and beauty supplies inside. That one isn’t light either, but I don’t notice any signs on his face that it’s too much. Either way, I bet he’d love to put it down, and I’d like to hang my dress up somewhere too, instead of carrying it.
But to do that, I’d need to enter the hotel room.
I glower at Phoenix—who, by the way, is carrying exactly nothing —and then reiterate my point. “I brought my own makeup, Penguin. My own hair supplies too. I don’t need a team of people to help me get ready for wedding pictures?—”
But I’m forced into silence as Phoenix steps suddenly toward me; my jaw snaps shut as I shuffle back. The tan carpet is so thick and plush that our footsteps are silent.
“Did you or did you not sign the contract?” Phoenix says quietly, his expression heartlessly impassive. He’s already wearing his wedding clothes; a suit, thank goodness, rather than a tuxedo, navy blue and tailored to perfection. His hair is styled more carefully than normal, too, swept back in a way that somehow looks effortless. The hallway light above us casts shadows over his face, illuminating his sharp cheekbones.
He looks good. That’s what I’m trying to say here; he looks really, really good.
I swallow and square my shoulders, trying not to think about my current velour tracksuit ensemble. “Yes,” I say. “I signed it.”
He takes another step toward me, and that faint leather-and-mahogany scent tickles my nose. “And did you or did you not receive your first payment?”
“I received it.”
He nods slowly, raising one eyebrow. “Then you know that you’re required to adhere to whatever style I believe is appropriate when interacting with my family. Since these portraits will be used as proof of our union, they fall under that umbrella.” He looks down at me for another second before jerking his chin over my shoulder, in the direction of the door to the suite. “So let’s go, Amsterdam. We don’t have all day, and believe it or not, I’d like to get this over with just as much as you would.”
“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you pick out the dress too?” I say. “Why stop at the makeup and hair?”
“Because I don’t believe you incapable of choosing a nice wedding dress,” he says. “You prefer casual clothing, but you’re neither cheap nor trashy, and you know what looks good on you. You were better suited to choosing a gown than I would have been. ”
I blink at him in surprise—I’m pretty sure that was a compliment—but he keeps talking.
“Let’s go. ” And with that, he reaches around me and slides the card key through the reader; from behind me sounds a little beep. Phoenix steps past me and pushes the door open, disappearing into the suite. Wyatt follows him, and I’m left with no choice but to do the same.
I try to be classy about my amazement, but in truth, it’s the biggest hotel room I’ve ever seen. It’s not even just one room; it’s multiple. The double doors open into a large, pristine living area, with a flat-screen TV and several stiff-looking couches. There’s a little kitchenette off in one corner and a few rooms off the living area. Everything is very neat and very clean, which is intimidating; I hope there’s no dirt or mud on my shoes.
Phoenix walks like he knows where he’s going, so I just follow him. He passes through the TV area and into one of the rooms on the other side, which turns out to be a giant bedroom, complete with vanity, closet, and a jacuzzi in one corner. This is my stop, I can tell, judging by the three ladies pulling out cases of makeup and a box of styling tools. They’re dressed all in black, and they work with a brisk efficiency that can only come from being hired by Phoenix.
“Do you have everything you need?” he says, looking around the room.
“I think so,” I say with a sigh.
He cocks his brow at me. “I was talking to your stylists.”
Of course he was. Heat rises in my face, but I ignore it.
“We have everything,” one of the ladies says—the nicest-looking one, and the youngest. She gives Phoenix a little smile, and he jerks his head in satisfaction. Then he turns to me .
“Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He hesitates for a second and then pulls something out. “Put this on.”
There, in his open palm, is a ring—a diamond solitaire, winking and glistening in the light of the large windows, at least two carats, with a thin gold band.
“Is that real? ”
It’s the first thing that pops out of my mouth, because that stone is enormous. It will snag on my hair and my clothes. It will be the set of brass knuckles I’ve never had.
But Phoenix just looks at me, nonplussed. “Of course it’s real.”
I swallow, staring at the ring. “Are you sure you want to do that? That diamond is huge.”
He sighs, looking tired. “I wish I didn’t need to marry you, but…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “You’re not a fake-diamond woman.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means,” he says shortly. “Put it on. We can have the size adjusted later if necessary.” Then he turns to the ladies setting up. “I’ve got quite the headache, so I need to excuse myself for a while. I’ll be back in a bit. All right?”
They give him varying replies of assent, and he sweeps out of the room without a backward glance.
“Please sit down, Miss Blakely,” the nice-looking one says. She gestures at the chair they’ve put in front of the vanity.
I slip Phoenix’s ring on my finger—it fits, bizarrely enough—and then, taking a deep breath, I move to the chair and sit down.
The nice woman smiles at me in the mirror. “Let’s make you beautiful,” she says.
This is going to be a long morning.
It’s a full hour before we hear from Phoenix again.
I have been moisturized and plucked and painted; my eyelashes look so long and so dark that I can see them in my peripheral vision, and my lips are a pink that they’ve never been before. I actually don’t mind the color.
When Phoenix knocks on the door and asks how everything is going, I jump so violently that the lady working on my hair frowns at me in the mirror. She wields the curling wand like a weapon, so I still myself and then answer.
“We’re fine,” I say. “We’re…” I glance at the lady in the mirror. “Almost done?”
She lifts broad shoulders and continues to curl my hair.
“Can I come in?” Phoenix calls, and the nice lady speaks before I can.
“Of course,” she says.
I disagree, but I guess I have no say here, so I keep quiet.
“I meant to ask you, my beautiful bride,” he says as he sweeps into the room, his eyes on his phone instead of on me. He heads straight for the bed and settles himself on the edge, then continues. “I heard from Beau that you were scammed.”
I freeze, gaping at Phoenix in the mirror. When he finally glances up and finds my gaze, a little smirk forms on his stupid face.
“I—is he allowed to tell you that? Isn’t there something about confidentiality?” I say, turning to look at him. The lady with the curling wand tsk s, grabbing my head with an iron grip and forcing it back forward.
“I don’t know,” Phoenix says. “But he said you fell for an internet scam trying to buy something.” He eyes me. “What, exactly, were you trying to purchase?” His smirk widens. “Something scandalous?”
You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But…“No,” I say. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
He stands up, tucking his phone into his suit coat and then sliding his hands casually in his pockets. He moves toward me until he’s standing right behind me, looking down at me in the mirror from next to my hair-wand-wielding stylist.
And I can see the exact moment he spots the half-open zipper of my shirt; his eyebrows shoot up, and then his gaze swings to mine.
“They were contouring my collar bones,” I mutter, giving him a look which clearly screams You asked for this, don’t complain.
He grins like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I, meanwhile, daydream about what kind of imprint this ring would leave if I punched him in the nose.
He pulls his eyes away from my open zipper and then leans down so that his head hovers directly over my shoulder. “So what did you try to buy, Amsterdam?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it maybe…” He turns his head until his lips are right at my ear. “A dog bed?” he whispers.
And once again, I find myself gaping at him in the mirror. “He told you?” I say, outraged.
“A human-sized dog bed, I heard.”
“I was—it was—” But I’m too flustered to do anything but stutter, so I snap my mouth shut. “I don’t have to justify my purchases to you,” I say. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought you had a headache.”
“It’s gone.”
“Would you like me to bring it back?” I ask sweetly .
That grin of his widens. “How? Will you chatter incessantly in my ear for five minutes? That would do the trick.”
“Go away.”
“It’s almost time to get your dress on,” the nice stylist says. I can’t help but notice that all of them are ignoring Phoenix’s presence, even though he’s probably in the way. Does he get to do whatever he wants, just because he’s footing the bill?
“I’m not getting dressed with you in the room,” I tell him. “Go away.”
He stands up, his eyes still glittering with amusement. “I’ll be in the living room,” he says as he turns and heads for the door. “Our session is supposed to start in fifteen minutes, so try to be ready by then.” And with that he leaves, closing the door behind him.
The nice stylist offers to help me get into my dress, but I don’t feel like showing off my underwear to a complete stranger, so I decline. When the woman with the curling wand finally proclaims her job done, the three of them pack everything up while I take my dress into the bathroom to change.
And while it actually might have been helpful to have someone else there with me, I do manage to get everything on okay. There’s just some one-legged wobbling involved. But the dress is pretty much backless, so the zipper doesn’t go up too high, and I don’t step on or rip anything. When I’m in and zipped and tied and buttoned, that’s when I finally turn to the mirror—and my breath catches.
Because I look like a freaking princess. Not a princess at a ball, but a princess from a fairy tale—out in the woods, maybe, or riding a pure white horse. I look elegant and graceful and ethereal, with the flowing skirt of the dress and the loose curls tumbling over my shoulder .
Plus my contoured collar bones look great.
I smile a little, because I can’t help it. I know this marriage is going to be fake; I know we’re not really in love. But right now, I look like a woman who’s off to live her happily ever after, and it’s a good look on me.
The stylists ooh and ahh when I come out of the bathroom, and I preen like a vain peacock. They hold me steady so I can step into my heels, and then we’re off—I have to gather the skirts of the dress just slightly when I go through the door and into the living room, letting them fall again with a pleasant rustle.
Phoenix doesn’t look up when I enter; he’s on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear, and there’s a little furrow between his brows as he speaks. “Let’s move that to the thirtieth, then,” he’s saying, “and schedule the next shipment one week prior.”
When Wyatt clears his throat, Phoenix glances at him; Wyatt gestures to me and the stylists spilling into the room, and Phoenix turns to look at us.
And at first, his gaze finds me for only the briefest second before jumping to the stylists; he gives me barely a glance, nothing more than noting my presence.
The double take doesn’t come until one second later.
I watch with immense satisfaction and triumph as his eyes fly back to me, widening so slightly I might be imagining it; his dark brows twitch, and he stops speaking in the middle of his sentence.
His pause lasts only two seconds; that’s how long he stares, his lips parted, his eyes blacker than ever. Then he looks away, clears his throat, and continues speaking. “And once those two go out,” he says smoothly into the phone, “we can work on finding a different distributor if need be.”
He sounds normal; he sounds the same. But there’s a little muscle twitching in his jaw that wasn’t visible before, and the hand resting on the arm of the sofa is uncurling from a fist.
I smirk. Evoking this kind of reaction in him feels like winning the Superbowl. It shouldn’t just be me who’s secretly attracted to him.
“You look lovely, Miss Blakely,” Wyatt says with a little smile.
“Thank you. I feel lovely,” I admit as Phoenix says something about talking more next week. He hangs up a few seconds later and looks at me again. Then he turns to my stylists.
“Well done,” he says, nodding at them.
They all smile, and the nice one says, “Do you need anything else?”
“Nothing,” he says, standing up. “I’ll be sure to recommend your services in the future.”
“We appreciate it,” the one who curled my hair says. The three of them smile once more, incline their heads at me, and then shuffle out of the room, leaving me alone with Phoenix and Wyatt.
“You think I look good,” I say the second the door shuts.
“I think you look passable,” Phoenix corrects me, straightening his suit coat and then turning to Wyatt. “Would you grab the rest of the bags from the bedroom, please, and follow us out to the gardens with them?”
“Passable?” I say, my jaw dropping as Wyatt hurries into the bedroom. “You did a double take, Rooster. Your jaw twitched.”
“My jaw did nothing of the sort.”
“And your eyes widened.”
“You’re delusional, Amsterdam,” he says, rolling his eyes. “ Let’s move things along, please. Exit and turn left out the doors to the gardens.”
I grin as I head to the fancy double doors. I know I’m right on this one.
“What do you think of the dress from this angle?” I say over my shoulder as I walk. I pull my hair gently over my shoulders so he can see the plunging back.
“I think there’s not enough fabric,” he says. His voice is clipped, tense, and it feels like he’s handing over a big gold trophy.
My smile just widens.