4. ANDIE #2
I run a hand through my hair, let out a long breath, and then nod. “Yeah,” I reply firmly. “Can I have…uh, a glass of white wine? Chilled, please?”
If I’m going to do all of this, I figure I should at least make the most of it that I can.
I know this is insane, but I’m in it now, and there’s nothing I can do about it now that I’m on this plane.
Unless I race into the cockpit and wrestle the controls away from the pilot and fly us all the way back to my studio apartment in Brooklyn, I think I should just keep my damn head down and get on with things.
And a glass of wine isn’t exactly going to hurt…
I head into one of the bathrooms and strip out of the dress, stuffing it into the bottom of one of the bags so I don’t have to look at it again.
Ugh. I can’t believe I was even wearing that thing, but what choice did I have?
It’s hardly the dress I would have chosen.
Or the husband, for that matter. But then, it’s not as though I have some long line of men who just can’t wait to get their hands on me.
And Nikolai, I have to admit, is…well, he’s kind of hot.
Not that I ever try to look at the grooms of the women I plan weddings for that way, but he has something about him, something commanding, something that seems to have everyone jumping to do what he asks.
Including me, though I’m trying not to think about that part.
I mean, that attendant rushing off to grab these clothes for me at the snap of his finger—it’s wild to me, to have that much command over people, to make it look so easy.
I dig through the bags and eventually pull out a simple tan dress, the kind I might wear at work. It won’t draw too much attention, and it’s comfortable to boot. I slip it on over my head and stare at myself in the mirror, letting out a sigh of relief as I meet my own gaze.
See? I’m still the same person I ever was.
I rub my thumb over the ring on my finger and try not to think too hard about just what it represents. That I’m someone’s wife—that this, whether I want to admit it or not, is really happening, and I need to find a way to wrap my head around it.
I sigh, stepping out of the bathroom, where the attendant is already waiting for me with a glass of wine. “Here you go,” she tells me, smiling sweetly in my direction.
I almost feel guilty, having someone fussing over me like this, but I guess I should try to get used to it.
I mean, the way Nikolai has been talking, it’s clear he’s used to having every little thing catered for him.
But I’m normally the one doing that catering, and it’s going to take me a hot second to figure out what it means to be on the other end of it.
“Thanks,” I murmur, and I pluck the wine from the tray and take a long sip as I make my way back to the seats in the small cabin in the center of the plane.
As I sit, I feel the engine start to rumble below me, and I bite my lip. Well, any plausible deniability I’ve been clinging to is well and truly out the window now. I am going to fly to Russia, whether I like it or not.
After a few moments, the sliding door to the cabin opens, and I look up to see Nikolai standing before me. He eyes me for a moment, gaze flicking to the wine in my hand. “Glad to see you’re making yourself comfortable,” he remarks, and my cheeks flush.
I suddenly feel like I’ve been caught in the act, though I know I haven’t. “She asked if I wanted anything to drink?—”
“Have whatever you like,” he replies with a shrug, leaning back into his seat and casting a gaze out the window and toward the dimming sun outside.
“Have you ever flown before?” he asks, as he notices the way I tense when the plane starts to move down the runway.
I shake my head. “Uh, not internationally,” I reply.
Truth is, I have never flown at all. I mean, I don’t do destination weddings, only events that are taking place in the city, but I’m not sure I want Nikolai to know that.
I feel as though I would be making myself a little too vulnerable if I confess to him just how much of this is new to me, as ridiculous as that sounds.
I don’t want him judging me for how different my life has been from his, how different, no doubt, it has been from the woman he was actually meant to marry.
Natalie has probably taken a million vacations just like this, flying out in her father’s private jet to a beautiful resort with her friends and family.
But me? I’m new to this. Every part of it.
“Well, let’s make your first trip memorable,” Nikolai remarks, and he presses a button on his seat. A moment later, the attendant appears in the doorway once again, looking down at the two of us expectantly.
“Bring us some champagne,” he orders her. “And something to eat.”
“Of course,” she replies. “Would you like—um, would you still like to have the wedding menu you planned?”
He nods. God, of course—I actually had a hand in putting this together, making sure the caterers were arranged to provide for them as they went off on their honeymoon. My mouth waters when I recall the menu, that honey-roast ham served with roasted vegetables and chocolate-dipped strawberries.
By now, I would normally be back home, massaging my feet after spending the day in tight shoes and ordering some Thai takeout from the place down the street. But normal has well and truly gone out of the window, and the sooner I come to terms with that, the better.
The food is served in a flurry of activity, a bottle of champagne chilled in a bucket of ice and popped between us.
I can feel Nikolai watching me, and I glance up at him for a moment, wondering what’s on his mind, if I even dare ask to find out.
I get the impression that he’s not used to explaining himself to people, not used to having to make the case for his own desires, and I’m not going to be exempt from that just because I have a ring on my finger.
I sip on the champagne, the bubbles rushing across my tongue. God, that’s good. I reach for the food, suddenly realizing that I’m starving, and begin to tuck in as he observes me from the other side of the table.
He can stare at me all he wants, it’s not going to keep me from eating.
“Good?” he asks, as I take a bite.
I let out a groan and nod. “So good,” I reply through a mouthful of food. “I remember putting this on the menu when I was working with the caterers a couple months ago, just didn’t think I was going to be able to taste it myself.”
“You don’t try everything before you put it on the menu?”
I laugh. “They’re not really in the habit of giving out free samples to anyone they aren’t trying to impress,” I reply. “So no. I just have to hope I pick the right thing when it comes down to it.”
He begins to eat himself, and I can’t help but notice the way his tongue slides over his lower lip as he catches a drip of honeyed sauce where it escapes his fork.
Everything he does seems so considered, so careful, and it’s hard to believe that someone like this would be so willing to jump headfirst into something as reckless as this.
“Well, it’s your wedding night,” he remarks. “If there’s any time to indulge, it’s now, isn’t it?”
I pause for a moment, a flutter in my chest. Maybe it’s the wine, or the champagne, or the private jet, or the fact that he has indulged me in a way nobody else has for so long, but the mention of our wedding night draws an entirely different idea to my mind.
“I guess so,” I agree, darting my gaze away from him, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks and hoping against hope that he doesn’t notice it.
“Your clothes,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at the dress I’m wearing. “Do they fit?”
“I haven’t had a chance to try them all on,” I admit. “But this one does. She did a really good job, I think they’re much nicer than my stuff back home. And as long as I’m out of that wedding dress, I’m good.”
He smirks slightly, as though amused by my bluntness. “Not your style?”
“Uh, not really,” I reply, with a slight laugh. “I mean, I don’t think wedding dresses are anyone’s style, unless you’re planning on getting married.”
He takes another bite of his food. “You looked beautiful in it,” he tells me, and my toes curl in my shoes.
He speaks so matter-of-factly, as though he’s informing me of nothing more than the truth.
It surprises me that he’s so willing to compliment me, after the mess that unfolded at the wedding.
I thought he would still be pissed at me for letting Natalie slip through my fingers, but it seems like he’s willing to forgive. For now, at least.
“Thanks,” I murmur, lowering my gaze slightly.
God, what is it about the way he looks at me that makes it so hard to think straight? It’s as though he can see straight into my head, like there’s nothing I can do to keep him at arm’s length, and I have no idea where that leaves me.
“But I suppose wedding dresses aren’t exactly meant for a wedding night, hmm?” he continues, and there it is again, that slight smirk, that edge to his voice as though he’s enjoying the way I’m reacting to him right now.
I tip my head to the side, brows digging together. “What do you mean?” I take another sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles burst across my tongue.
“Nothing.”
“No, come on,” I insist, leaning forward, all too quick to remember the way he kissed me before. “I know you meant something by it…”
“I’m sure you can put the pieces together.”
I put my fork down, my food suddenly forgotten. When he looks at me like that, I find I’m hungry for something else entirely, something I’m not sure I should be so willing to entertain.
I tip my head to the side, surveying him, teeth resting on my bottom lip. “I guess,” I murmur, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “That…that the wedding dress comes off pretty soon into the wedding night, huh?”
He grins. “You certainly got rid of it quick.”
“Because it was so uncomfortable!” I protest, but I find that I’m laughing. I can’t help it.