Chapter 6 Don’t Move
DON’T MOVE
I stare at my phone and the text I typed out for Adelaide. This is the third one that has gone unsent.
I want her here at my side for this significant day, but the last time we texted she was in limbo with Kingston, trying to make their precarious relationship work and make sense of their past. She wanted to confront her dad about something too but didn’t want to go into detail.
How could I ask her to support me on my wedding day—no matter that it’s arranged and fake—when she is still fighting to make things work with Kingston?
We haven’t spoken directly since our girl's weekend in Boston about a month ago. So much has changed since then. Mostly my hope for a relationship where I had a say. I suppose that’s still to come once I’m out of my house and free from under my mother’s control.
Lachlan signed my trust over to me, but without talking to him about where we’ll live, I can’t decide on where to open my business, which means my life is at a standstill.
Him ghosting me after getting in his Batmobile and racing away is a huge stressor. I thought I wouldn’t care, but so much relies on a conversation between us—multiple conversations that we haven’t had.
Since Lachlan left, time has passed by in a blur. Was it only three weeks ago that I—my mom—chose my engagement ring, my wedding dress, flowers, color scheme, cake, and every other detail.
It’s basically my mom’s wedding. Mom’s and Pippa’s. The two of them decided which Maid of Honor dress Pippa would wear. They also said I needed a bridesmaid to match Lachlan’s one groomsmen.
At the time, I typed out a text to Adelaide complaining about everything and saying how much I needed her.
I came so close to sending it, but I couldn’t be that selfish.
Since then, our texts have become less frequent.
She isn’t telling me everything on her end, just like I’m withholding the misery on mine.
We’re the same in that way, always have been since we became fast friends in eleventh grade.
My mom took the opportunity to appoint the role of bridesmaid to the daughter of her best friend from her book club.
I stare at Emma—named after the Jane Austen novel—through the long mirror I stand before in the guest room located closest to the side garden where the wedding ceremony will be held.
Emma is doing her best to hoist up her small boobs from the top of the lace dress. Its A-line shape makes her waist look tiny. Pippa chose it for the same reason but to conceal her growing baby bump. The periwinkle blue color complements Emma’s mahogany hair.
Pippa wears the color often. It makes her blue eyes stand out. The only difference between their dresses is Pippa’s is floor-length versus tea-length and has pearls along the neckline.
To be honest, I would have loved a wedding gown in a softer shade of that blue. Periwinkle is universal in that way and complements me as well as anyone.
Mom waltzes over from where she was talking to the wedding planner and Pippa—it’s their wedding after all. I’m just the bride. Her buttery yellow Alexander McQueen dress with periwinkle flowers was made specifically for the event.
She had our hair styles done to match, too.
Each of us has strategically set waves that cascade over the right shoulder.
A tornado couldn’t undo the stiff mass falling over my breast. The only plus is it hides the massive boulder.
My other boob is on semi-display thanks to the low-cut sweetheart neckline of the dress Mom chose for me—a romantic Galia Lahav gown.
It had to be altered to accommodate my breast size and tiny waist. I don’t hate it, although I’m not sure I would have chosen it had I been allowed free rein.
The lace corset forms a sharp V that dips just above my navel.
My boobs spill out in the most humiliating way for my taste.
The long sleeves drape off the shoulders in a romantic puddle of sheer lace.
The tight waist spills into a full skirt made with layers of tulle and lace.
Flower appliqués cluster at the hem. The veil is made from the same and anchored to my head with a delicate diamond tiara.
Mom’s way of playing up the nobility angle.
If we’re so noble, why aren’t we getting married in Lachlan’s castle? Why aren’t we all there for this celebration? Mom would have pushed for it.
I suspect she did after I teased her about it during the wedding dress fitting.
Pippa kept complaining that as the first born, she should have been married to a Scottish nobleman.
“He’s more British than Scottish,” I said, mostly because nothing about him says Scotsman.
His hair is dark. He’s tall but not bulky—perfect in size—and his English accent is just enough to be sexy. When I think of a Scot, I picture red hair, beefy, and lots of rolling Rs—as cliché as it sounds. Robin Hood. William Wallace. Robert the Bruce. Jamie Frasier.
Lachlan is more like one of the English scoundrels I read about in my historical romance novels. His Celtic tattoo and muscular chest and abs didn’t say English aristocrat, my mind argued.
“A nobleman?” Gillian the boutique owner gushed as she watched her assistant fluff the skirt of the gown they special ordered for me. “What’s his title?”
“His mother was a countess. She inherited a castle from a prominent earl in Scottish history,” Mom brags.
Gillian’s chocolate eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “A wedding in a castle. How dreamy. You must be over the moon,” she said to Mom.
Mom cleared her throat and pasted on the fake smile she uses when she’s covering for something that isn’t public knowledge. “The weather in Scotland is too unpredictable for an outdoor wedding. The theme is peonies and lace, so it must be held in a garden, which is why I chose our estate.”
In that moment, I knew she had pushed for the wedding to be in the castle and Lachlan had shut her down, leaving me to wonder why. Why not show off what you own? You’d think he’d pride himself on having an ancestral castle.
Mom fluffs my veil and moves my plastered hair so the swell of my right breast is on display. “You look regal and romantic.” She gasps. “Why didn’t I think of that for the theme?”
“Does it matter?” I say with as much enthusiasm one would have before getting a cavity filled.
“Of course it matters. It all matters.” She gestures at the French doors to the garden and the ninety guests waiting for the wedding to start. “These are our dearest friends. They expect the best from us.”
If they’re your dearest friends, they wouldn’t expect anything other than your friendship.
A fair number of the guests are from the family business. The rest are Dad’s friends, women from Mom’s book club, socialites, and some journalists and influencers to whom Mom can brag to and spill more lies.
She could have invited hundreds of guests, but they always keep their arranged weddings controlled and in small groups with people who know not to ask too many questions.
“Is Lachlan even here yet?” I ask for the tenth time.
A thin sheen of sweat forms on my forehead at the thought of him not showing. He has to be here. He’s as obligated as I am after we signed our lives away in Dad’s office three weeks ago.
“I’ll check with your father.” Mom flutters from the room as if a missing groom moments before the ceremony begins is no big deal.
Pippa shoos away the makeup artists who’s touching up her face. Her eyes connect with mine in the mirror. “Legally you’re already married. He doesn’t have to be here. Besides, this is more for Mom and Dad than it is for either you or Lachlan.”
I know, I want to blurt, but I don’t trust myself to stop at that. It irks me how she said Lachlan’s name like she knows him personally, when they've never spoken before.
My jaw locks, and sweat forms above my upper lip. I move toward the nearby table to get a tissue but get blocked by my makeup artists.
“Uh-uh.” She swoops in and blots my skin with a tissue-paper wipe, knowing exactly where to touch up my face.
Am I glistening that badly? What a disaster. This whole ordeal. I glance at my chunky engagement ring. Lachlan hasn’t even seen it.
I knew not to expect love from him, but this lack of involvement wasn’t even a consideration.
My phone chimes from the hidden pocket of the dress. Mom would kill me if she knew I had my phone on me. I take it out.
Mr. Assford: Meet me in the next room.
My heart flutters for no other reason than pure relief. Not because he’s here and wants to see me. Not because for dumb reasons I want him to be wowed by my appearance in this dress, which is the most asinine thought to have when I’m marrying a gay man.
Me: You’re not supposed to see me until I walk down the aisle.
Mr. Assford: Fine. I’ll come to you.
My pulse spikes, and I type quickly.
Me: NO. I’m coming.
I don’t want an audience.
“I’ll be right back.” My big skirt swishes with my steps as I walk from the room.
“Where are you going?” Pippa barks.
“Bathroom.” I bug my eyes. “Do I need permission for that too?”
She makes a face, and I realize the Pippa who needed me and who I bonded with when she worried she might lose her baby while Hunt paraded his mistress around like Henry the VIII was a fluke—a hormonal fluctuation that temporarily made her nice and less entitled.
Fortunately, the en suite bathroom is a Jack and Jill that connects with the next bedroom. I lock myself inside and slip into the adjoining room.
Lachlan stands near the window, staring out at the guests seated in the white slip covered chairs. They face a dramatic arch covered in peonies with lace weaved throughout. It’s beautiful with the thick woods in the backdrop and hydrangeas in pink, purple, and blue bordering the trees.
The view isn’t half as splendid as the one before me though. Lachlan’s tall form and fitted black tux showcase his broad shoulders and lean waist.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” I say instead of hello.
He turns and the sun catches his aqua eyes, making them glow. His chocolate hair is styled in that tidy, disheveled way, highlighting his chiseled features. Damn. Lachlan in a tux is downright sinful.
His gaze doesn’t meet mine but rather slides over my gown, slowly taking in every inch of me. After a moment or two of lingering on my breasts, he wipes his mouth then those aqua eyes lift to my face, hair, and tiara.
“Stunning,” he murmurs.
Is that reverence I detect in his voice? If it is, none of it reflects in his eyes. In fact, they haven’t locked on mine once.
“Your mother wants pictures. I told her they’ll have to wait until after the ceremony. I want this over with as much as you do, I’m sure.”
I nod, part in shock at his dismissal of the grand event—the only wedding day I’ll ever have—and part in agreement. The sooner this ends, the sooner the disappointment of the day will be over, and I can move on with my life.
“We should have fake-eloped,” I state with a frown.
His eyes connect with mine. Finally. “I don’t think that was an option.”
“Not with my mother.”
He stalks toward me. “Don’t move.”
How did he know I was about to do just that? I force myself to stay in place.
He stops about a foot away and peers down at my face. “Lift your chin.”
“What?” I ask confused as his rainstorm oaky scent engulfs me in a sensual way I try to ignore.
“Lift. Your. Chin.”
“Boss—ee. Much?” I glower.
He hooks his finger under my chin and forces my head to tilt back. “We haven’t kissed. It needs to look like we’ve kissed before our first time in front of an audience.”
I swallow, my throat tight all of a sudden. “I figured we’d wing it seeing as neither of us are amateurs.”
His jaw muscle flexes. “From now on these lips will only ever touch mine.” He brushes his thumb across them. Before I can make sense of his possessive words or the shiver that whispers down my neck at his touch, his mouth is on mine.
Soft, full lips send me reeling with pressure that’s not forceful but not gentle.
He kisses me like he owns me, like I’m his to do whatever he pleases, whenever he pleases.
The hand that was at my chin slides to cup the back of my neck possessively.
His other grabs my waist and tugs me against his hard body.
I gasp in surprise, and his tongue slips into my open mouth.
His minty fresh taste drags me under, and the way he expertly strokes my tongue sets my pulse on fire.
I moan as tingles shoot through my body, particularly to my core.
At the same time, my muscles turn to mush, and dizziness washes over me.
His hold on me tightens as he angles his head and kisses me deeper.
I grip his muscular biceps, afraid I’m falling. My entire equilibrium is off. Never have I been kissed like this. He has me pinned against him, showing me he’s in charge. My breath grows heavier by the second, and my corset squeezes tighter as if it wants to vomit my boobs out of my dress.
His tongue swipes and twirls, leaving me fogged with lust. The moment I fear I’m about to pass out, he pulls away, forcing me to grapple for control over my body and senses.
“Don’t let go,” I murmur, my eyelids heavy and barely open. If he lets me go, I’ll fall for sure.
Something that sounds like a chuckle vibrates from his chest. I can’t be sure. I’ve never heard him laugh, let alone seen him crack a smile.
“You can’t react like this at the altar.”
“You can’t kiss me like that then.” I fire back even in my weakened state. Goodness, one kiss, and I’m knocked on my ass. “Do all gay men kiss this good?”
The question is absurd, but I’m not in my right state of mind, high off a hormone influx like I’ve never known.
“Can you sit in this dress?” Lachlan asks, confusing me again.
“What?” I force my eyes open all the way. Now that my breathing is close to normal, I feel more like myself.
He hooks his hands under my arms and carries me the short distance to the bed, setting me on the edge of the mattress.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I do. “I won’t possess you the way I just did at the altar, but I will later tonight, and I don’t want you passing out in the process. Practice your breathing before then. I’m not waiting to claim you.”
I blink slowly at his gorgeous, profoundly serious face, certain I’m unconscious on the floor dreaming this. “Are you talking about sex?”
“I’m talking about fucking you the way I’ve wanted to since the first time I laid eyes on you and decided you’d be mine.”
Nothing he said makes sense to my befuddled brain. “But you’re gay.”
“No, Emery. I’m not.” He straightens, then his finger grazes my cheek. “Drink some orange juice; you look pale.”
With that, he leaves the room.