All of Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

“Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” He drapes his arm over my shoulders and we walk across the bridge to return to the chateau, and I’m touched by how selfless this man can be. He has money and power and fame, but he never thinks about only himself.

  We enter the dining room to find Katie and Mike still sitting at the table, worry on their faces. Chris and I take off our coats again and sit down.

  “Everything okay?” Katie asks.

  “Yes,” Chris replies. “I just had a little walk down memory lane.”

  “Memories aren’t always easy,” Mike replies.

  “No,” Chris agrees, “but they make us stronger.”

  I’m reminded of what he told me about Chantal, about how we’re the sum of our broken pieces.

  Chris lifts his glass. “Let’s toast.” Everyone lifts their glass, and he says, “To making roses—”

  “Out of wildflowers,” Katie finishes.

  Part Twelve

  Just You and Me

  The weeks before the wedding pass in a blink of an eye, despite a brief window of harassment by the press. Chris and I spent the time at home and around San Francisco, especially in “our” window corner of Diego and Maria’s Mexican restaurant, while Chris sketches and I work. Maria’s son Diego is back from Paris as well, nursing a broken heart, and his mother is determined to help him mend with comfort food. She’s also determined to fatten me up before the wedding, and I certainly don’t lose any weight.

  Now, on the eve of the wedding, I wake up alone in the bed of the rental house, certain Chris is already in the kitchen drinking coffee. It’s become our ritual for him to wake early and start the coffee, be it here, back at the apartment in San Francisco, or in Paris, and for me to join him when it’s ready.

  Entering the kitchen, I find Chris leaning on the marble countertop by the coffeepot, shirtless and in his pajama bottoms, the long strands of his blond hair a wild, sexy mess I’m pretty sure I created last night.

  He glances up from the paper he’s reading, then picks up his coffee cup. “Morning, Ms. McMillan.”

  “Morning, Mr. Merit,” I reply, grinning as I join him.

  He offers me his coffee cup and I happily accept it, taking a drink of the perfectly flavored coffee and creamer. Sharing a cup with Chris has this sexy, intimate feel to it that always does funny things to my belly.

  “Your last day as a free woman,” he comments.

  “Why? Are you planning to tie me up sometime soon?”

  He covers my hands on his cup. “Is that an objection, or wishful thinking?” He tilts the cup and drinks, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “I plead the Fifth. It’s more fun that way.”

  “That it is,” he agrees, but a sigh follows. “I wish I could do the same, but you’d better look at the newspaper.” He sets the cup on the counter, then hands me the Arts section of the local paper.

  Dread fills me as I read the headline: “Acclaimed Artist and Philanthropist Chris Merit to wed Sara McMillan on Valentine’s Day in Star-studded Event in Sonoma.” I set it down. “We went to so much trouble to get the press off our backs before the wedding, and now they’ve found us! I knew when all these famous people showed up on the guest list, it was going to turn into a zoo.”

  “Walker Security anticipated the press, and they’re staffed and ready for it. It’ll be fine. We’ll be shielded.”

  Nerves the size of birds, not butterflies, attack my stomach. “We should have eloped.”

  “We still can. Let’s do it. Now. Today.”

  “We can’t elope,” I say, sounding appalled, as if he’d suggested it, not me. “People who respect you are coming a long way to see us. And Katie has planned this for months.”

  “Baby, we can do whatever we want. This is our day.”

  “No. We can’t. Not this far into this. Which reminds me—you can’t stay here tonight. It’s bad luck to see the bride the night before the wedding.”

  “I told you how I feel about that. We make our own luck.”

  “Chris—”

  He kisses me. “I’m staying here tonight, and I’m fucking you like I won’t see you ever again, just to be sure you walk down that aisle.”

  “If you’re waiting for me at the end of that aisle, I’ll be there. And if you’re staying here tonight, we can use separate bedrooms.”

  “Does today count as part of that eve-of-the-wedding rule?”

  “Yes.”

  He scoops me up and I yelp. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a renegade, baby. Let’s go break the rules.”

  • • •

  It’s noon when Katie and I head to the Auberge du Nuit, the resort hotel Chris and I stayed at our first night in Sonoma. First on the agenda is to meet a couple of her girlfriends, as well as Chantal, her parents, and Rey in the lobby. As Chantal predicted in Paris, Katie and her mother are elated to see each other. Of course every person I meet tells me how beautiful I am, even though I’m without makeup, in sweats, ready to go to the spa. Maybe brides are like new babies, which everyone says are cute even when they have swollen heads and red faces. Nevertheless, I take the compliments gracefully, and there’s lots of hugging and laughter. There’s also enough awkwardness between Chantal and Rey to make even Katie, as distracted as she is by her reunions, give them a curious look. When the fuss finally dies down, Katie, her friends, and Chantal’s mother decide to do a little sightseeing. Rey is quick to go to his room.

  Next for me and Chantal are our appointments at the spa, and while I’m dying to ask her about Tristan and Rey, it’s impossible, since we’re split up for facials, manicures, and pedicures. After we’ve been pampered, we head to one of the hotel restaurants for a snack and settle at a table for two.

  I glance at the round bar in the center of the room and sigh. “I’d get a drink to calm my nerves, but the lady in the spa said it would make me puffy for the wedding.”

  Chantal huffs at that and flags down a waitress. “Get a drink. You’re bouncing off the walls.”

  That’s all the convincing I need. I order a glass of champagne and Chantal does the same, along with some spinach and artichoke dip and a plate of nachos to share. Halfway through my bubbly, with a few bites of food down me, I finally ask what I’ve wanted to for hours. “How bad was it flying over with Rey?”

  She shoves her long brown hair behind her ear, looking uncomfortable. “Miserable. I hate him. I don’t hate him. He feels the same about me.”

  “Okay, then. That sizes that up. What about Tristan?”

  “He’s Tristan. Tormented, angry, miserable.”

  “And that means what for the two of you?” My brows dip. “Or . . . uh, the three of you?”

  “Two of us. There is no me and Rey. As for Tristan, I want to make his pain go away, but I think I’ve decided I can’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he needs more. Or something else.”

  “And how about you? What do you need?”

  “I need to freshen up.” She sets her napkin on the table, then walks away.

  I’ve clearly hit a nerve. I was afraid of Tristan hurting her, but it seems like Rey is the one tearing her to pieces.

  My gaze drifts to the window and the view of the Mayacamas Mountains, and I’m fondly remembering seeing them the first time with Chris, when I hear, “Hello, Sara.”

  I freeze at the familiar voice, the only voice other than Michael’s that could make me nauseous in an instant. I turn, swallowing the knot in my throat, to find my father claiming Chantal’s chair. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, and the only time I’ve heard his voice was when he was on speakerphone with Chris, being the bastard that he is.

  I don’t speak. Neither does he. We just sit there, staring at each other. He’s still thin, his regal carriage as evident as always, but money
and time have been good to him. His thick, dark hair might be more gray, and there are a few more lines on his face, but he still looks like the arrogant, self-important, but incredibly good-looking man I know as my fallen idol.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally ask.

  “I know I haven’t been the best father,” he begins.

  “Are you kidding me? Are you really going to have this conversation with me today?”

  “I’ve put it off for too long.”

  “And you choose the day before I get married?” I cross my arms in front of me, shutting him out, wishing this didn’t cut so deeply. “Please leave.”

  “Sara—”

  I lean forward and point at him. “Your timing is so poorly thought out that even if I wanted to hear what you had to say, which I don’t, I wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’m sorry. For now. For the past. For everything.”

  “You think sorry makes it all go away? You think sorry makes you dismissing Michael”—my breath hitches—“and what he did to me okay?”

  “No. I don’t. I think it’s a beginning. That’s all I want.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a cancer scare. It’s over. I’m fine, but it made me look in the mirror.”

  Cancer. That one word chills me to the bone. It’s like it’s all around me, touching lives, destroying lives. Mark’s mother. Rebecca’s mother. Dylan.

  “All I’m asking is for you to be open to a conversation with me after the wedding. I’ll call you.” He gets up and leaves. He just . . . leaves.

  I sit there watching him, my mind blank, and I suddenly realize that I’m shaking, on the edge of an explosion I can’t have here. I push to my feet, grab my purse, and rush in the direction of the bathroom. Rounding the bar, I enter an L-shaped hallway and stop dead when I hear rapid French. A man’s voice, Rey, I think, and then Chantal is responding, first in French, and then shifting to English.

  “Sorry? What are you sorry for?” she asks, contempt lacing her words. “Because I’m not sorry for Tristan. He needs me. He thinks I’m woman enough for him. He thinks I’m good enough.”

  “You think I think you’re not good enough?”

  She snorts. “Shall I quote you? I’m too young. I’m too—”

  “It’s me that’s the problem. I’m a problem for you.”

  “You’re right. You are. You keep messing with my head. Just go, and let me go.”

  “I can’t,” he rasps hoarsely, and I can tell from Chantal’s gasp that something has happened.

  I peek around the corner to find them kissing. Sinking back against the wall, I turn to leave . . . and see Chris approaching, his black T-shirt stretched over his perfect chest, his jeans hugging his powerful lower body. He’s just . . . Chris. He is perfect.

  I wrap my arms around him and press my head to his chest. “Hey,” he says, his hand coming down on my head. “What’s wrong?”

  I look up at him. “How is it that you’re always here when I need you?”

  “That’s what we do, Sara. We’re here for each other. The salon told me you were here.”

  “I thought . . . I thought he told you. Did you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “My father. He was here.”

  “What? How? When?”

  “He just left, and I have no idea how he found me.” I laugh bitterly. “He wanted to apologize.”

  “Stay here,” he orders, but when he tries to leave, I hold on tight. “He’s gone. He left.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He said he’d call after the wedding.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he had a cancer scare and it changed his thinking. And I hate that I feel this ball of hope that it might be true. No one is who he is and then changes. And why did he have to choose today? He’s going to call. It’s not over.”

  “And we’ll deal with it, like we do everything else. That’s what we do,” he repeats. “We’re there for each other.”

  “I don’t want to let him back in my life, so why does he stir these feelings inside me?”

  “The same reason mine did me. He’s your father, a part of you. But so am I, now.”

  There’s a whisper, a moan, and Rey says something in French.

  “What the hell?” Chris asks.

  I laugh and grab his shirt when he tries to look around the corner. “Don’t look. It’s Rey and Chantal. Apparently he’s decided he’s not so bad for her, after all. He apologized and she said it wasn’t enough.”

  Chris cups my face. “Because when you really want someone, nothing is ever enough.”

  “Why do I feel guilty for not greeting my father’s request with welcome arms?”

  “He took you off guard, and he’s done a lot to hurt you—including not being the father you needed him to be. Try to put him aside for now. The hurt, the guilt, the need he creates in you for that unknown something you never had.

  “Because you have us. Think about us. Think about our song.” He lowers his head, his lips near my ear as he softly sings, “It’s just you and me and all of the people. With nothing to do and nothing to prove.” He leans back and stares down at me, his eyes filled with love. “Just you and me, baby.”

  I smile. “Just you and me, Chris.”

  Part Thirteen

  The Reason I Breathe

  The morning of the wedding, I don’t awaken alone. I’m on my stomach with Chris draped over me, one leg twined with mine, his hand on my backside. It’s heaven. Not only am I marrying the love of my life, but he’s talented, sexy, and a really amazing person.

  I like Chris. I admire and respect his decisions. And those things matter in big ways.

  His fingers flex against my bottom and I smile. “You’re awake.”

  “Hmmm. I’m awake.” He nuzzles my neck and his fingers trace the crevice of my backside, sending a shiver up my spine and tightening my nipples. “Contemplating all the things I want to do to you before I let you out of bed.”

  “We can’t,” I say, trying to turn, but his leg holds me down. “Chris, not until tonight. We talked about this.”

  He sighs and eases his hold on me. I turn face to face, my hand on his chest— a mistake, if I mean to resist him. He’s gorgeous and naked, and about to be my husband, which is the sexiest thing ever. And the way he’s looking at me, like he wants to gobble me up, is making him sexier and me hotter. He strokes my hair away from my face and when our eyes connect, he consumes me that easily. Chris does that to me. He wants, and I need. It’s how it is. It’s who we are.

  His fingers press into my hip and he pulls us together, the thick ridge of his erection fitting into the vee of my body. I press my palm to his shoulder. “It’ll be better tonight if we don’t,” I say, trying to sound convincing. I fail.

  “It’ll be better tonight because you’ll finally be mine.”

  “And because we waited. No sex this morning.”

  He rolls me to my back, his big, wonderful body an arousing weight on top of me. “Okay,” he agrees, as if his actions don’t contradict his words. “No sex this morning.” He eases down my body until his shoulders widen my legs, his lips brushing my belly. It trembles beneath his touch, and I’m desperate for an ounce of willpower.

  “Chris. You said—”

  “I just want to know if you taste different this morning, as Sara McMillan, than you will tonight as Sara Merit.”

  “Stop saying Sara Merit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes me want you.” He smiles and lowers his head. With what little willpower I have, I tangle my fingers in his hair. “No. This counts as sex.”

  “A taste isn’t a full meal.” His hands slide under my backside and his breath teases my clit. My eyes close, my muscles tensing with anticipation, and he doesn’t
make me wait. He licks the seam, sending a wave of sensations rolling through me. And then he’s kissing my belly again. “See. Just a taste.” He starts to get up.

  Appalled, I sit up and grab his arm. “Don’t you dare leave me like this!”

  His eyes dance with mischief. “I told you, just a taste.”

  “You’re teasing me,” I accuse.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “If you’re going to start something, you have to finish it.”

  “What about the no-sex-this-morning rule?”

  “It’s silly.”

  He laughs. “Is it, now?”

  “Yes.” The doorbell to the rental house rings and I walk on my knees toward Chris. “Don’t get it.”

  He flattens me against him, running his hand up my back, melding my chest to his chest. “It’s my tuxedo.” He kisses me and then releases me.

  Defeated, I fall back on the bed and moan. “This is not how a bride should start her day.”

  “Tonight.”

  I rise up on my elbows to find him in his pajama bottoms, and sigh. “Right. Tonight.”

  As he disappears through the door, I roll out of the bed and search for my robe. Not seeing it, I snatch up Chris’s shirt from the floor and slip it over my head. Eager to make sure his tuxedo is right, I rush down the hallway and reach the door as Chris is hanging a garment bag on the coat rack.

  “Is it what you wanted?” I ask as he unzips the bag.

  “Yes. I tried it on yesterday and left it to be pressed. It fits.”

  I run my hand over the lapels. “I’d have been happy with you in your leather jacket.”

  He faces me, towering over me. I forget how big he is sometimes, but he is. Tall, broad, and so very masculine. And he gives me one of his smoldering looks that say “I own you,” and my skin heats all over again.

  “I like you in my shirt,” he says, his voice a low, raspy promise of hot kisses in all kinds of wonderful places.

  “I like me in your shirt.” I sound breathless. I feel breathless.

  We stare at each other, the air crackling with electricity.