All of Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I know, and I feel the same,” I agree, the admission cutting clear to my soul. “I can’t even stop worrying about Chantal. Can you imagine what I’d be like with a child? Our child?”

  His lashes lower, lingering on his cheeks for several moments before they lift, the sunlight catching the amber flecks in his green eyes. “We’d make beautiful babies.”

  “Anyone would make beautiful babies with you.”

  “We’d make beautiful babies,” he repeats, and we stare at each other, and something shifts between us, like a flower blossoming despite the cold chill of the winter’s day.

  “Yes,” I agree; my throat constricting. “Yes, we would.”

  Chris wraps his arm around my neck and presses his cheek to mine, his breath a warm fan on my skin as he whispers, “Never say never.” And with those words, we’ve both opened ourselves to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, one day we’ll be strong enough to dare just about anything, as long as we’re together.

  Part Six

  Rules Are Made

  to Be Broken

  I’ve had three blissful, mostly naked days at the chateau with Chris, and he’s now in his dungeon-level studio, painting. I’m in my bra and panties, standing in one of the ten spare bedrooms, with a sixty-year-old French woman sizing up my ass. Literally. She wraps the tape measure around my hips and scribbles something on a notepad. Chantal, who seems to be fully through with her anger at me over Tristan, lies on the bed on her belly, her jean-clad legs in the air, watching us with an amused smirk on her face.

  “This is not funny,” I scold as the woman wraps the tape measure around my thigh. “Ask her why that measurement is important. I’m not wearing pants at my wedding.”

  Chantal speaks to her in French and the woman replies. “In case you want honeymoon outfits. Good thing you made peace with your translator.”

  “And my friend,” I remind her, having promised not to ask her about Tristan anymore in order to get her here today. “We haven’t even thought about a honeymoon. Tell her just a wedding dress, please.”

  “Are you kidding? You want to turn down an outfit from one of the most famous designers in the world?”

  “Well, yes. Or no. Katie set this up and only told me afterwards. She said canceling would be an insult.”

  “Like you’d say no to having this designer come to you to do measurements and show you designs? This is pretty amazing, Sara!”

  A little thrill goes through me, and I grin like a schoolgirl. “It sort of is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “But it has to be incredibly expensive!”

  Chantal holds a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I have a secret.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “You’re marrying a very wealthy man.”

  “I know, but Chris is so much more than his money. I’m never going to take it for granted.”

  “Judging from the way that man looks at you, I’m certain he’d spend it all to make you happy.”

  “Money won’t make me happy, and he knows that. My father is very rich. I walked away from it all because he’s a bastard, and I wasn’t willing to be his slave. Money isn’t happiness, believe me. It’s who Chris is, and what he makes me feel, that puts joy in my life.”

  The woman stands up and looks at me, and though she’s only spoken French, there’s a look of approval in her eyes that makes me wonder if she understands English. When she hands me my pink robe, the hint of a smile on her lips is almost certain confirmation. She gives me a tiny nod and speaks to Chantal before leaving.

  “What did she say?” I ask, slipping the robe on and tying it at the waist.

  “They’ll be rolling in some samples in your size from all those trucks they brought with them.”

  “Oh. Wow. I’m excited to see them, but this is so much pressure, with them making a special trip out here. What if I don’t like any of them?”

  The door opens and a tall, thin, rather regal man in a fitted blue suit walks in. “Then we’ll make something you like,” he assures me in a heavy French accent, grey sprinkling his neatly trimmed black hair.

  I flush with the certainty he’s heard what I said, noting the door wasn’t shut all the way.

  “Ms. McMillan,” he says, stopping in front of me and offering me his hand. “I’m Andre, one of the design executives, and you are quite lovely. It will be a pleasure to dress you and it is certainly an honor to be the style choice of the future Mrs. Merit.”

  “Mrs. Merit,” I say, feeling a zing in my chest as I shake his hand.

  “Mrs. Merit,” he agrees, his lips curving.

  I crinkle my nose and try not to grin like a schoolgirl. “I’m getting married.” I glance at Chantal, who is now sitting Indian-style on the bed. “I’m getting married!”

  She laughs. “Yes, you are.”

  Andre now wears a full-blown smile. “You’re getting married, Ms. McMillian. Let’s find a dress to do it in, shall we?”

  I nod. “Please. Yes.”

  He presses his hands together, studying me intently, and I like the way he gives me the impression he’s invested in more than his job. He’s invested in our wedding. “Tell me a bit about the wedding. Small or large?”

  “No more than seventy-five people,” I say, anticipating that the fifty Chris and I approved with Katie this morning will morph into more. “It’s just me and Chris at the altar with the preacher; no attendants. And it’s outdoors in Sonoma, at a winery Chris’s godparents own.”

  “Veil?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Train?”

  “No. It seems too elaborate, and I’ll just trip on it anyway.”

  Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we? February, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be a bit chilly that time of the year, so we’ll want to at least consider long sleeves. You don’t want to be standing at the altar shivering. Let me go pull some options from the samples, and we’ll start trying things on.”

  He crosses the room, opening the door and disappearing into the hallway.

  “Is Chris wearing a tux?” Chantal asks as I sit down next to her.

  “We haven’t talked about it, but I’d like him in his leather jacket and me in a wedding dress. That sounds really sexy to me.”

  She laughs. “It does to me too, though I bet he dresses up hot.”

  “Very.” I warm all over just remembering the night in Los Angeles when he’d stripped away his tux and told me he’d own me if I stayed with him; that he’d protect me from everything and everyone but him. He thought that was bad. I thought it was perfect. And finally, it’s true. He’s not protecting me from himself anymore.

  Chantal waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? You still with me?”

  “Oh. Yes. Sorry. Thinking about Chris.” I give her a quick inspection, wondering what it is that Tristan makes her feel, and I can’t help but notice that she looks good, her skin glowing, her eyes shining. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “I am, too.”

  “The only thing better would be if it were you and Ella,” I say, repeating what I’d said to Chris earlier this morning.

  “Anything new on her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No news is better than bad news,” she offers.

  She’s right, of course, but the not knowing is killing me. “I just want you to know that it’s the fear of losing her that makes me more protective of you.”

  “I understand. I’d be the same way, and honestly, I’m glad you care.”

  I hesitate, but dare to push my luck. “Just answer one question, and then I’ll leave it alone?”

  “Yes, I’m still seeing Tristan.”

  “As friends or more?”

  “That’s two questions.” She sighs. “I probably shouldn’t t
ell you this, but he’s kind of perfect for me. A bad boy who’s really messed up and needs a good girl to ground him. And I’m a good girl who needs a bad boy to make me feel alive.”

  I recall all too clearly her calling Chris a “bad boy” with stars in her eyes, and me warning her that sometimes bad boys really are bad. She hadn’t believed me then, and she sure won’t now.

  “I don’t know if you’ll understand,” she continues, “but I know that this relationship isn’t forever. And that knowledge is a freedom I’ve never allowed myself before.”

  “I do understand, more than you might think,” I say, remembering how I felt that first night, when I thought Chris and I were both too damaged to be anything but sex to each other. “And I don’t think Tristan is a bad guy. Even Chris says Tristan is a good guy, but one who’s in a bad place. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  The door opens and two racks of dresses are rolled in, as well as a gigantic mirror and some sort of changing panel. Several more gowns, so large they take two people to carry them in, arrive, and Chantal gets off the bed so they can be laid on top of it.

  As Andre joins us again I tell him, “If they’re that big, they’re too much for me. I want simple and elegant.”

  He snaps his fingers and his assistants remove the dresses. “Simple and elegant it is.”

  The next two hours are a whirlwind of one dress after another, including several more racks of new styles. With each dress Chantal and Andre seem to hold their breath, waiting for my opinion before offering their own. Finally I try on a dress in pale pink with a fitted bodice and chiffon bottom. It reminds me of the contrast of me and Chris. Actually, it reminds me of the moment I told him I was pink paddles and butterfly clamps, and he was leather and darkness. It will remind Chris, as well. I know it will.

  “It’s stunning on you,” Andre says, his finger resting on his jaw as he gives me a once-over. “I don’t see the light in your eyes I wish to see. What isn’t selling you?”

  “I really don’t know. I do like it.”

  He studies the dress a moment and suggests, “What if we did a straight bottom that’s form-fitting instead of the chiffon, so it’s not quite so ballerina?”

  “What do you mean by a fitted bottom?” I ask Andre, the idea sounding a bit less girly and more womanly, more appealing. “Have I tried on a dress that has a similar fit?”

  “Hmmmm,” he murmurs, thinking. Then he walks to the rack and pulls out a garment bag. “This one is special,” he says, unzipping the bag. “No one has even seen this dress before.” He lifts it out and carries it to the bed, laying it down as I step to his side. “As you can see, it has a silk fitted bottom, rather than the chiffon flare, and the top is absolutely elegant. Of course it’s white, but we can custom-design a similar gown in the pale pink if you prefer that. Try it for style and fit.”

  I nod in reply as he exits the room, unable to tear my eyes off the stunning gown. From the waist up, the long-sleeved dress is sheer, made with some sort of mesh perhaps, except for the well-placed, gorgeously etched roses forming the bodice, the perfect complement for the rose ring that Chris designed for me. It’s a flower that reminds him of his mother, and reminds me of Rebecca, who I credit for giving me the courage to find myself and be who I am today with Chris.

  “ . . . and the pale pink is really beautiful on you,” Chantal is saying, snapping me back to the present. “What do you think?”

  I point to the dress on the bed. “This is the dress—not the one I have on.” I turn and give her my back. “Unzip me, please?”

  I rush behind the changing panel and slip off the pink dress. Chantal appears beside me with the new dress, helping me pull it down over my head. “Please be the one,” I whisper, as I turn so she can zip me up. The instant she’s done, I rush around the panel to stand in front of the mirror. I sigh at my reflection, my long brown hair draped over the sheer white, a striking contrast that makes me certain I want to wear my hair down. And the roses on the sheer material create a sexy impression, yet they reveal absolutely nothing.

  “The back is gorgeous,” Chantal comments, and I turn to find the same sheer material running down my lower back with little roses here and there.

  “It really is,” I agree, facing the mirror again. I run my hands over my hips. “I love this fitted bottom so much more than the chiffon.”

  “It fits you like it was custom-made,” she agrees. “It’s truly stunning, Sara.”

  “I love it. How much do you think it costs?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Not the money thing again. Please.”

  “I just want to know the price before I make a decision. I need to talk to Andre.”

  Hurrying to the door, I fling it open, rushing forward and around the corner to smack right into Chris, his hands coming down on my arms, resting on the sheer mesh of my gown. “Oh God,” I gasp, my hands flattening on his chest. “You can’t be here. You’re supposed to be painting.”

  “I took a break.” He moves back enough to give me a quick but thorough inspection, and the look in his green eyes when they lift to mine is hot enough to scorch Alaska. “You are fucking gorgeous, Sara. This is the dress.”

  “I know. Yes. Or I don’t know yet. He hasn’t told me the price.”

  “I don’t give a damn how much it is. It’s the dress. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

  Heat rushes over me and collides with excitement. I run my fingers over the bodice. “Did you see the roses? Just like on my ring.”

  “Yeah baby, I saw the roses. Like I said. Perfect.”

  “Even if it is, now you’ve seen it. You can’t see me in my dress before the wedding. It’s bad luck. Now this can’t be the dress.”

  Andre’s voice sounds behind us, and it’s not a happy voice. “This is unacceptable. He cannot be here. I forbade it, and now this cannot be the dress. It’s bad luck.”

  “See?” I tell Chris. “I can’t wear this dress.” My heart sinks even saying those words. Chris frames my face with his hands. “Sara. We’ve been breaking every rule either of us have ever made since we met. Why would we want to follow anyone else’s now—or ever?” He kisses me, a deep, curl-my-toes, passionate kiss that has me moaning despite the many guests in the house. And when his lips part from mine, he says, “Let’s keep breaking the rules together. It works for us.”

  I bite my bottom lip and nod eagerly. “Yes. Let’s break the rules.”

  “Ms. McMillan,” Andre chides, “I must object. I’ll custom-design a dress.”

  “We’ll take this one,” Chris announces, no give in his words.

  I turn in his arms to face Andre and Chantal. Andre’s staff of at least ten has gathered around them, and I can’t help but grin as I say, “This is my dress!”

  There is a moment of silence before everyone, even Andre, starts clapping.

  Part Seven

  One Door Closes,

  Another Opens

  On the following Saturday, Chantal picks up something in the city I want to give to Chris and brings it to me, so I can surprise him. She doesn’t have long to visit, so I walk her to the library to find some books for her grandmother.

  We cross the stone foyer, passing the winding stairs that lead to an impressive balcony that wraps the entire second level above us. Chantal stops in the center of the foyer, staring up at the magnificent chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. “This place is stunning. Are you ever coming back to the city? Out here, in this gorgeous place with a famous, sexy artist . . .” She sighs. “A little piece of heaven.”

  I smile. “It is. But yes. We’re coming back on December first.”

  “That’s weeks away.” She wipes pretend tears from her eyes.

  I laugh and hug her. “I’m just a phone call away.”

  She holds onto me a little too hard and a little too long to pass for a casual good-bye, and I can’t
help but think that her promises of being unattached to Tristan are about as real as mine were with Chris. I lean back and study her, my hands on her shoulders. “You can come out here anytime, and you can always call me. About anything. Including Tristan.”

  She shoves her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. “I know that now—and I’m glad I do.”

  I can’t stop myself from saying, “Text me when you get home. That little fuel-saver car of yours scares me.”

  “Everyone drives small cars here.”

  “It’s terrifyingly small for a highway. Text me. Please.”

  “I’m not going straight home.”

  I see the comment as the test it most certainly is, and I aspire to pass my exam. “Then text me when you get to Tristan’s.”

  Her lips curve. “Okay.”

  I open the heavy wooden door and we step out onto the stone porch, a gust of cold wind blasting us. Chantal huddles into her coat, and I wish I had one. Shivering, I hug myself, and frown at the sight of Chris and Rey standing in the driveway beside Rey’s car.

  “What is he doing here?” Chantal asks tightly.

  “I don’t know,” I say, a gnawing, horrible sensation in my chest.

  Rey is wearing a ski jacket, his keys in his hand. Chris is in a T-shirt, as if he’d rushed out to keep his unexpected guest outside. Rey says something to Chris, who scrubs his jaw in obvious frustration. Rey is trying to find Ella, and whatever he has to say, Chris isn’t happy about.

  “I’m going to take off,” Chantal announces, rushing down the stairs. Both men look up, Chris focusing on me, Rey on Chantal, his gaze stormy, and I know she’s running from him. Rey goes in pursuit of her and Chris walks toward me, the set of his jaw grim.

  My mind is all over the place. I want to run to Chris and demand answers. I want to run away like Chantal and pretend this isn’t happening. I want to be back in my dress, with Chris kissing me and this being one of the happiest days of my life.