Ruby
With each dress I’m made to try on, I almost back out of this wedding a thousand times.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me anything about Miles . . .” muses Story, as she puts another floofy, frilly dress I vetoed back on the hanger.
I’m tempted to see how far I can push until she snaps, but she just keeps producing them, like a wedding dress magician. Endlessly patient.
Her sentence hangs in the air, and it occurs to me that’s why she hasn’t given up yet . . . because she wants the gossip.
I shrug. “What’s there to ask?”
“What isn’t there to ask?” she shoots back and hands another thing over for me to try on.
Taking the hanger, I assess the contents. “This isn’t a dress.”
“No, you don’t seem to like dresses,” she deadpans.
I stifle a laugh. It's not that I'm not a dress person. I’m just so used to living in T-shirts and tight pants that having air between my thighs feels . . . drafty.
“It’s not white.”
Story shakes her head. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”
We have the entire changing room to ourselves. In fact, we have the entire dress store to ourselves. I’m not sure what kind of pull Story has in Aspen, but we’ve been in here for hours, and all the assistants have done is bring us champagne and all the dresses Story’s asked for.
It was fifty dresses ago that I stopped walking into one of the cubicles. I’ve spent most of the day in my panties.
Slipping the jumpsuit off the hanger, I pull it on, one foot at a time.
The pale pink silk glides up my legs, hugging my hips and ass, but it’s my tits I’m most proud of.
They’re usually squashed down with a sports bra, but now .
. . I could be on Sports Illustrated. Hugged together in the low-cut front and framed in the tiniest frill of pink silk . . . wow-wee.
A wolf whistle sounds from behind me, where Story’s giving me her full approval as she zips up the back, then peers over my shoulder.
“Holy fuck. You look amazing. Miles will come in his trousers on sight.”
My laugh splutters, and air gets stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat. I manage to wheeze out, “Jesus,” before taking a long sip from the champagne glass Story’s holding out.
“It’s just . . .” Cough. “Business.” Cough.
Story’s brows slowly rise, and she gives me a short, sharp whack between the shoulder blades. “Then I’d say he’s getting his money’s worth.”
My spluttering turns into a giggle, because yeah, I feel good.
After years spent in the saddle, it’s nice to see one benefit of the training I’ve put my body through.
My hands smooth over the curve of my ass and the soft pink silk.
I don’t think my body’s ever been encased in something so luxurious or expensive, if you don’t count the horse between my thighs every day.
Then I catch sight of the price.
“Seven thousand dollars!” I panic-shout. I’m not sober enough to be wearing this. I’m not anything enough to be wearing this. Who cares what my tits and ass look like? “Get me out of this thing before I damage it.”
“Calm down, Miles is paying.”
I shake my head. “No. He can’t.”
“He certainly can, and I have no intention of arguing with him. He’s a pain in the arse most of the time, but during an argument, I could quite easily murder him.” She rolls her eyes.
I glance at myself again and whimper with indecision. I shouldn’t let him buy it because it sets the wrong precedent. Plus, when am I going to wear it again? But it only takes Story whispering, “Think of it as a signing bonus,” to sway me into taking it.
I stand still while she unzips me. “I take it you’re not a Miles fan.”
She peers at me in the mirror, her lips pursing and relaxing, while she considers her answer. “I’ve been in love with Hendricks for longer than I can remember . . . but with Miles, we’re like chalk and cheese. We make an effort because we both love his brother.”
I groan, “Great—”
“But I can never fault Miles’s loyalty or dedication.
He can be a selfish twat, but he always puts Hendricks before himself.
He’s phenomenal at what he does, and if he’s asked you to come and join Foxleigh, then you must be phenomenal too.
” Her soft brown eyes hold mine. “I know this is ‘business’”—she inexplicably air-quotes—“but I think you might be exactly what Miles needs, tough enough to take the shit he deals and give it right back.”
“Oh.” That’s all I can come up with as a response, and I silently hand over the jumpsuit to Story and tug on my jeans.
“Are you sure you don’t want your family there tomorrow? We can fly them here—”
“No,” I bark, my body stiffening, while I attempt to pull my shirt back on. “Sorry, but no . . . they don’t care about what I do. They don’t need to know about this. It’ll be over before they even realize I’m out of the country.”
I expect Story to push further, based on my interactions with her so far—plus all the discarded wedding dresses—but she just nods. “Okay.”
Turning around, she grabs something from the box on the floor and holds it up to me.
It takes a second to register what it is. “Eww. No.”
Story laughs. “Exactly my opinion of veils. He’s already seen what you look like. Plus, knowing Miles, he’s going to be staring at your tits anyway.”
The shocked burst of laughter I let out blows away the tension from her previous questions and lasts until we leave the store, bags in hand.
After purchasing the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever owned, I’m now sitting at dinner in the most expensive restaurant in Aspen, wondering if this is what marriage to Miles Burlington will be like.
But aside from vetoing a million dresses and the mild levels of complaining, I’ve had fun today.
I am having fun, much to my surprise. I'd forgotten what it was like to be out and free and just have an evening of laughing that wasn’t in the cramped rooms above the stables, drinking beer with the other grooms.
“I never thought my brother would beat me down the aisle.”
I glance over at Hendricks, who’s grinning stupidly while staring at Story, making me feel like I’m on the outside of a joke.
“You and me both,” replies Miles, next to me, his arm draped across the back of my chair, where it’s been most of the evening.
He hasn’t touched me once, but no outside observer could question us not being together.
We’re sitting close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him, his body warming the scent of leather and cedar I registered earlier, and it’s fucking with me.
Every couple of minutes, my heartbeat flickers irrationally, driving me to distraction.
Like now, when I hear my name for the second time, and my gaze jerks away from Miles’s thick thigh inches from mine and back to Hendricks.
“Ruby, tell me about yourself. Miles didn't have much to share.”
“Well, considering we only met properly two days ago, that's unsurprising.”
Next to me, Miles chuckles.
“Where are you from?”
I'm tempted to say that we really don’t have to delve into my childhood, because there’s truly nothing of interest to share, but I get the impression he actually wants to know.
It’s bizarre how two identical people can have such different energies.
Hendricks is quieter, whereas it’s obvious Miles needs to be the life and soul of a party.
“I’m from Iowa. I have two older brothers. My dad’s a farmer—”
Miles tips his head toward me. “Hey, same as us—”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.” He barely gets his sentence out before I scoff.
I’ve never seen anyone look less like a farmer. Or from the world of farming—weathered, tired, a little bit beaten. Years of being in the polo world have taught me what money looks like, and these guys aren’t just money, they’re money money.
Not the kind you get from farming unless you own—say—the whole of Montana. Or Idaho.
“We are,” Hendricks pushes. “Our elder brothers run the operations side of the business, but it’s been in our family for generations. I’m a vet.”
“A veterinarian?” I repeat, because again, Hendricks is the least vet-looking guy I’ve ever seen. That watch he’s wearing costs close to a hundred grand, and you’re not going to be sticking that up a cow’s backside.
“Yup, I’m—”
“We have Aberdeen Angus, a thousand sheep, chickens . . . ponies,” says Max, who’s working his way through a bowl of spaghetti. “Um, what do you have on your farm?”
“My dad farms corn.”
Max’s little face scrunches in confusion. “Like corn on the cob?”
I nod. “Exactly like that.”
“You don’t have any cows?”
I shake my head, purposely pulling my mouth down at the corners, and pouting my bottom lip. “Nope. Not that we farm, just a couple for . . .” I’m about to say eating, but think better of it.
“Oh, that’s sad.”
“It sure is. I think I’d like some sheep.” I laugh, as a thought occurs to me. “I guess Miles isn’t what I thought he was.”
“What did you think he was?”
“An ass—”
Story barks out a laugh. “He’s definitely that.”
“You aren’t a horse family?” presses Hendricks.
“She taught herself to ride. And play polo,” Miles says before his brother finishes asking his questions, which are basically “what’s a small-town girl like you doing hanging with us?” I get it. He’s protective, and he’s going about it with way more tact than that crusty lawyer.
But I’m focusing on Miles now because, and I can’t tell for sure, but it sounds like there’s an undertone of admiration in his voice.
“You must be good if Miles is giving you a shot,” he adds.
“Um . . .” I search for the words I’ve never lacked when selling my skills, but I’m rendered speechless, and my cheeks heat. Coupled with what Story said earlier—about him being phenomenal—it’s the first time I’ve ever had anyone compliment me. Anyone ever notice me. Validate me.
Except Miles.
I’m still thinking about it when Story lets out a loud yawn. “Okay, everyone, I think it’s time to head out. Max needs to go to bed, and so do I. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“We do.” Miles turns to me. “C’mon, future wife, can’t have you being late to the altar.”
I twist my whole body toward him, one eyebrow raised. “After tomorrow, what are you going to call me?”
He shrugs, and the corner of his mouth quivers. “Wife?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ll work on it. Now”—he stands and holds his hand out to me, while Hendricks signs the check—“come with me.”
Leading me outside, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
“As we’re getting married, you need a ring.” He nods toward the box, gesturing for me to open it.
Inside is the biggest stone I’ve ever seen. A pink one. And the first thing I think is, has he been walking around with this in his pocket all night?
“It’s a ruby.”
I tear my gaze away from the box to look at Miles. He’s staring at me like a little boy desperate to please and be told he’s done something good, and it’s heart-aching.
“A ruby for Ruby. I don’t normally like them, but this is pale pink, and I thought it was pretty, plus the shop assistant told me it was rare. I thought it suited you.” He gently eases the box from my hand and removes the ring.
I barely breathe as he lifts my left hand and slides it down my fourth finger. Except it gets stuck on my knuckle, as the afternoon of drinking and carrying shopping bags has swollen my fingers ever so slightly.
Before I can stop him, Miles slips my finger into his mouth.
A million thoughts run through my brain, and not one is appropriate.
My finger’s encased in wet warmth, the sensation of him circling his tongue over the knuckle has my heart pounding in my chest and thighs clamping together.
Adrenaline rushes through me until it takes all my concentration and energy to hold in the tremors.
I can’t take my eyes away, and when he slides his mouth off with a soft pop, the ring is sitting prettily and sparkling far too innocently.
“Husbandly enough for you?” He winks.
His words are a cold shower on my libido.
Shit, he’s good. I almost forgot this was an act.
In fact, this ring was probably forty bucks at Target. I hope this ring was forty bucks at Target.
But deep down, I know that Miles Burlington doesn’t do fake, which is what makes his acting all the more impressive.
I just pray my skills are up to the same level.