Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
He reaches the top, then clasps the eye hook together. “There,” he says, low and smoky. He drops a soft, tender kiss to the space between my shoulder blades. It sparks from his touch. I spark.
“I didn’t want you to be late. That’s why I stopped.”
I close my eyes, let out a shaky breath, more relieved than I want to be. “I thought you didn’t…” I can’t even finish.
“I do. I fucking do. But I was kind of a dick.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was curt.”
He was brusque when he ended the kiss. Still, I wish I didn’t feel so bruised. So tender. I wish he didn’t feel like I’m this damaged woman.
But maybe I am.
Maybe I don’t have to be all the time though. I think of his words from the night Jameson dumped me in front of twenty thousand fans at the arena. Chin up. I can be brave again. I lift my chin, look in the mirror in the dressing room, and meet his gaze. “Thank you. For coming in here.”
“Only place I want to be.” He lowers his face, gazing at my body as he runs his hands over my bare shoulders and coasts them down my arms, slow and sensual. When he reaches my hands, he slides his fingers through mine. A double clasp, and it feels like a reassuring embrace from behind me. I’m fizzy everywhere, bubbles popping in every cell.
He meets my gaze straight on in the mirror again. “You’d better go put on some lipstick, Remy. I’m going to do everything in my power to absolutely fuck it up on camera.”
All that tension, all that tightness, unwinds and slinks out the dressing room door, a jack-in-the-box unsprung. I turn around in his arms. “Thank you. For telling me all that.”
He frowns, apologetic, then his lips return to a straight line. “I’m not always good with words.”
I don’t think that’s true though. “You are.”
But also, I think I need his reassurances more than I want to admit. And maybe that’s okay.
Shoes click, flats this time, and a throat clears from the other side of the door. “Are you ready for the LT?”
“Yes,” I say, opening the door, focused on why I’m here. The LT, or lipstick test.
With disappointment, Fallon points to my mouth, then dips her hand into her ever-present bag of makeup tricks. She extracts a lipliner and a tube of lipstick. “You were supposed to be wearing both.”
“Oops,” I say, while Lake coughs like he’s fighting a laugh as he slips past us. I guess we know no lipstick can withstand an eight-minute side-of-the-road kiss that leaves you with a sweet ache between your thighs. “Give me the L and the LL then.”
For the first time ever, the dour woman looks a little pleased as she hands over lipstick and lipliner, then tells Lake to wait by the wedding dresses.
When I finish applying the makeup, she marches over to the doorway leading from the dressing rooms back into the shop, motioning for me to join her. “You walk in from here, and the videographer will record you showing your dress to your date. You’ll join him by the wedding dresses. Just talk naturally about the dress. Then I want you to say, ‘But can this lipstick withstand a hot kiss?’”
I nod, repeating the line in my head. I didn’t realize there was a script. But I also can’t resist, saying, “Confirming you want an HK?”
Lake shoots his arm in the air from his spot near the dresses. “Or should it be a VHK?” He tilts his head, the most adorably quizzical look on his face as he asks if she wants a hot kiss or a very hot one.
The woman behind the counter hides a chuckle as she attaches tags to stacks of clothes on a pink, cushioned chair next to her.
“HK will suffice,” Fallon says crisply.
“Got it,” Lake says, then blows out a breath and murmurs to himself like he needs to remember every detail, “HK. Give her an HK. You’ve got this.”
Fallon turns to the videographer. “Ready?”
“Always,” she says.
Fallon backs me up to the dressing room area. “On three.”
The videographer counts, and on cue, I emerge.
When I turn into the shop this time, Lake stares at me like he did the first time he saw me in my black strappy dress, with desire in his eyes. I walk across the store, the videographer following alongside me. It’s so weird that someone’s filming me, but I try to ignore her and act natural.
“Stunning,” Lake says when I reach him.
And I forget the cameras. “You like?”
“Love,” he says, as if he’s mesmerized.
I strike a pose. I hardly feel like I’m acting. Lake’s heated eyes journey up and down my dress, then he reaches for my hand. “I won’t be able to take my eyes off the maid of honor.”