Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3)

by Jasinda Wilder

  The idea being, neither was interested in a typical bachelor/bachelorette party. The lead up to the wedding was stressful enough without adding that in, so why not just have one big party, hang out with friends in the backyard, and then Seven, a married man, has one last night to cut loose with his friends before heading off with his new bride. It’s not like anyone actually ever had sex on their wedding night anyway—you’re always too tired from the spectacle of the wedding. Not to mention, they’d been living together for months at this point, so the wedding night sex thing wasn’t the same deal it used to be when that tradition was started, so there didn’t seem much point in following a tradition that was useless to them both.

  “Can we go back to Laurel and her weirdly defensive freak-out about Titus Bright?” Kat said. “I mean, Autumn babe, you look incredible. Seven is going to have a chubby the whole wedding and if you two disappear for a minute afterward, no one is going to be at all surprised.”

  Autumn turned to check out her backside, smoothing the dress over her hip. “Oh, it’d take way more than a minute. But, a little secret, we’ve actually not had sex at all this week. Part of it is that I’ve been on my period, but also just to make it that much hotter when we do get that time alone. Which will be on the beach in the Caribbean, and not a moment sooner.” She eyed me. “And I’m more interested in Laurel’s little situation myself.”

  “This is Autumn’s day,” I said. “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s a nonissue. If he thinks he’s going to own me, like rope me into some Dom-Sub Fifty Shades nonsense, he can think again. Unless he wants to be the sub, in which case I might be persuaded to at least hear him out. But that’s not how he sounded, and I’ve already done the rock star bit anyway. Not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Well shit. If I’d wanted attention off me and my little issue with Titus Bright, this was a dumb way to go about it.

  Lizzy snorted. “Well now you have to tell us. Which rock star did you bang?”

  “Jamison Flare,” I sighed. “From Sun Storm.”

  Teddy’s head shot up and her eyes met mine. “How on earth did you manage that? The only musician more reclusive than Jamison Flare is that guy with three names from Tool.”

  “It was accidental. Meeting him, I mean, not the sex. The sex was intentional, obviously. Remember a couple years ago—three years? Maybe four, it’s hard to remember—when I took those five days in Maui? We met in the hotel bar. He had the penthouse, and I had the next best suite under his. We basically spent every night that whole week together. We’d do whatever separately during the day, but once we were back at the hotel for the night, I’d go up and we’d drink champagne and screw. And it was a lot of fun. He was really, really hot, and had a really great dick, but…he wasn’t that great in bed, and talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. He was just shitty, terrible, and absolutely abysmal at making conversation. Like, he was a caveman. Grunt once for yes, grunt twice for no, and sex was even worse. He’d just hump and pump until he came and then roll over and grab his phone and ignore me. The fame and the dick weren’t worth it. It was still better than no sex, and it’s fun to be able to brag that I banged Jamison Flare, but…two out of ten, would not recommend.”

  Kat made a shrugging gesture with her champagne flute. “But then, that’s just Jamison Flare, that’s not every musician, every rock star.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, but what you’re missing is that he treated me like I was interchangeable with every other groupie, like I’d chased him backstage and begged him to fuck me. That’s not what happened, and I never acted like I was fucking him because of who he was. Yet to him, I was just another nameless, faceless set of tits and ass.” I waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Regardless, it’s not about whether or not Titus Bright is a rock star, it’s about how he assumed he would own me.”

  “He didn’t say ‘own,’ though, did he?” Teddy asked. “He said you’d belong to him. That’s not the same as owning.”

  “Belonging to him implies the reverse is also true,” Lizzy said. “That he equally belongs to you.”

  I groaned. “Why are you guys pushing this? If I’m not interested in Titus Bright, what is that to any of you?”

  Teddy came over and sat on my lap, put an arm over my shoulders. “Because, dumpling, you’re saying no before you’ve given him a chance.”

  Autumn came over, stood in front of me, pressed her palms to my cheeks, bent forward and kissed my forehead. “My advice? Give it a shot. See what’s he about. If you discover you don’t like what he’s about, you can nope out. And none of us will blame you for that if you do. But if you stay away just because you had a bad experience with someone else who isn’t him and for all you know is nothing like him, then we kinda will hold that against you. I feel like there are lessons to be learned from Lizzy’s and my experience. Risk nothing, gain nothing. Risk a lot, gain a lot.”

  I sighed, more of a groan than anything. “And what if I risk and it doesn’t work out?”

  “You get hurt, and we’re there to pick up the pieces,” Teddy said. “It’s what friends are for.”

  “Just like that?” I asked.

  Teddy shrugged. “Sure. I’m not saying it’d be easy, but yeah, just like that.”

  I wasn’t so sure. It seemed far easier and far safer to just stay on the other side of the yard from Titus Bright.

  2

  Seven St. John stood alone in front of the white, red rose-wreathed archway, clad in a fitted tuxedo. The girls and I were seated in the front row, with Seven’s father, his agent, his manager, and half a dozen of his friends—two world-champion boxers, a certain A-list actor whose name was known by every household in the world, just about, Frederick Lyons the restaurateur, and a handsome, well-dressed black man who Autumn had said was a famous NFL running back, and a massive man with short curly black hair and dark brown skin, who Autumn had said was a Maori from New Zealand and a professional rugby player. Gorgeous, that one. But I, to my eternal damnation, had eyes only for the man on the stool, with a beautiful acoustic guitar, off to one side, playing an acoustic, instrumental version of “Kiss Me” by Ed Sheeran.

  Autumn was positively radiant, striding toward him. Since we five girls plus Braun were Autumn’s only family, and since Seven’s guest list was similarly small, there was no block of chairs, no center aisle, just one row—so Autumn walked up to Seven from the side.

  Autumn glided, slow and smooth, approaching Seven with a glowing smile on her face, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers. The minister was a short, svelte black woman, her hair a dozen thick dreads braided through with colorful beads and wrapped with silver and gold wire, bound back with a brightly colored beaded band, wearing a white gown that was designed to reflect her African heritage. She held a folder in her hands, and smiled beatifically as Autumn halted in front of Seven. Lizzy rose and took the flowers from her, then sat back down while Autumn and Seven joined hands.

  “Hi, everyone,” the minister said. “Today is a glorious, beautiful day.” It was, indeed—sunny and warm, but not too hot. “We’re here to bear witness as true love unites two souls, Autumn Scott and Seven St. John. I’m not going to ask if anyone objects, because if anyone did, you wouldn’t be here, would you? No, there can be no objection to this union. It’s love, made plain as day. I mean, come on, just look at them. Have you ever seen a man look at a woman the way this guy is looking at her? I haven’t, and I’ve done a lot of weddings. That’s love.” She held her folder in one hand and placed the other over Seven and Autumn’s joined hands. “As their hands are joined, so now are their souls, and their very lives. This is a ceremony—it’s a declaration, from them, to you and the world, that they’re committing to each other. A marriage, on the face of it, is not anything more than a legal procedure. But, when two like-minded souls decide to unite in holy matrimony, like Seven and Autumn, it becomes something far, far more—it’s a braiding of hearts. No longer will there be the heart of Autumn and the heart of Seven, but one hea
rt, one soul, comprised of two halves. That’s what we’re doing here. They give this ceremony meaning. As long as their hearts are one, this marriage will stand strong and define the course of their life. And I say life, singular, rather than lives plural, on purpose. Theirs is now one life. You all are witnesses, as I declare them husband and wife.”

  She looked at Seven. “Your vows?”

  Seven nodded, took a deep breath. Let it out. “Autumn, I…I wrote these elaborate vows, using all the best words I know. I memorized them. They were damn near poetry. But damn if I didn’t forget every word of them the moment I saw you, just now. So I guess I’ll try my best to recapture what I was going to say, but I’ll just…freestyle it.” He sighed again, nervous, emotional. “You changed me, babe. There was nothing for me in this life except getting through day to day. And then I met you. You’re the softness these hard hands crave. You’re the sweetness this rough heart requires.” He let go of her hand with one of his and pounded his chest with his fist, then rejoined her hands. “You’re the wonder that makes each day better, the light that shines out of the sun itself every morning. You’re the love that tells my heart it’s okay to feel again. You’re the trust that tells my mind it’s okay to be vulnerable…I’d say again, but it’d be more accurate to say for the first time ever. Autumn, you’re the future that makes this life worth living. I never thought I’d be a husband, and more than that, I never thought I’d want to be a husband.” He squeezed her hands, let out a soft breath. “But I am your husband. So my vow is that I’ll fight with every ounce of myself to be the best husband I can be, as hard as I fought every time I stepped into the ring. I’ll fight for you, and I’ll fight for us. I’ll love you till the sun goes cold, not just till death do us part, but past that, in whatever it is that’s on the other side of living. Rich, poor, sick, healthy, hard times and good times, I’m yours through it all. That’s my vow.”

  Autumn sniffed, smiled. “You’re a hard act to follow, Seven, but here goes.” She gazed up at him for a moment, then let out a shuddery breath. “You said I changed you—you stole the words out of my mouth. You absolutely altered the very fabric of who I am. I wasn’t sure I believed in love until you. I know I didn’t. I’d never seen it, after all.” She broke off and gazed at Lizzy, with Braun beside her. “Until you two, at least.” Back to Seven. “They made it seem possible. You proved that it’s possible for me. And that’s what I never believed I’d ever have. But here you are, marrying me, loving me—choosing me. So that’s what I promise, Seven: to love you. To choose you, again and again, even when you piss me off as only you can. I promise to love you so hard that you’ll never want to spend a single night apart from me.”

  “Already did that part, babe,” Seven interjected, laughing.

  “Hey now, I didn’t interrupt you,” she joked. “I promise to prove to you that love is real and that our love is forever, no matter what.” She squeezed his hands, and stepped even closer to him, eyes shimmering. “I promise to wife you so hard, you don’t even know.”

  He laughed, we all did at that.

  She wasn’t done, though. “I have one other promise to make.” She inhaled shakily, and when she spoke, her voice was tremulous. “I promise, Seven St. John, to be the best mother I can be to the life that’s growing inside me.”

  Silence, then, as we all took in what she was saying.

  “Wait, you…” He stared down at her. “For real?”

  She nodded, took his hands and placed them over her womb. “I found out this morning.”

  He dropped to one knee and pressed his forehead to her belly, and his shoulders shook. “Best day ever just got better. It’s like a two-for-one special.” He pressed a soft kiss to her belly. “Thank you, Autumn. Thank you for this. For you.” Another kiss to her belly. “And for you.”

  She pulled him to his feet, and glanced at the minister. “Are we married yet?”

  The minister laughed. “Yeah, I think we best get on with it, shouldn’t we?” She plucked something from the pages of her folder—a length of pale blue silk. “It came to my attention that no one had brought anything borrowed or blue to this wedding, so I brought this. This piece of silk is older than the state of California. It was first used to bind the hands of my many-times great-grandparents almost two hundred years ago. They fled slavery in South Carolina together, and built a new life out here, by pluck and by courage and by love.” She wrapped the pale, frayed length of silk around Seven and Autumn’s joined hands. “It has been wrapped around the hands of my forebears in every marriage in every generation since. There’s so much love in the fabric of this silk, I think you can just about feel it coming off of it in waves. In all the generations of marriage for which this silk has been used to bind hands, there has not been one divorce. Not one. Marriages in my family last, on average, a minimum of forty years. This very silk was wrapped around my hands and my husband’s as we were married thirty years ago, just yesterday in fact. Before I wed you, I place upon you the blessing of long life and lifelong love, pressed into your hands as they are joined by the symbol of this handfasting.”

  There was murmuring among us in the crowd—that was something truly special, and we all knew it.

  “As this piece of silk binds your hands together, so it also binds your lives, and your hearts. With that in mind, do you, Seven, take with a willing heart and mind this woman, Autumn Scott, to be your wife, for all time and through all things?”

  “I do.” His voice broke, and he tried again. “I do.”

  “And you, Autumn, do you take with a willing heart and mind this man, Seven St. John, to be your husband for all time and through all things?”

  “I do.”

  “Then by the power vested in me by God and by the State of California, I pronounce you husband and wife, wife and husband, now and forever.” She withdrew the silk, held it in her hands. “Amen, and let it be. You are now wed, before God and these good people. Kiss each other and seal the deal!”

  Seven kissed the ever-loving shit out of her. Gathered her in his arms and bent her backward, kissing her with gusto and with passion, until we all began to whistle and clap and laugh.

  It went on until it was nearly uncomfortable, and then he lifted her to her feet and then they turned and faced us.

  “Who’s ready to get their party on?” Seven said. “We’re married, ya’ll!”

  Titus traded his acoustic guitar for an electric one, a keyboard, and a microphone, all fed through a loop pedal. With the keyboard, he lay down a complicated series of synthesized beats, which he layered and looped into something like a dance club beat, and then swung his electric guitar around and picked a haunting, delicate melody which he put on loop. Returning to the keyboard, he then layered an ascending riff on the piano, repeated and looped. Back to the guitar, then, angling to the microphone and strumming a slow, chugging rock riff.

  Played that for a moment, and then sidled up the mic and began a low, wordless note, a gravelly hum that smoothed as his voice went louder and higher, sliding up the register of his remarkable range until he was singing an aria, and I was amazed again, as I’d been when I saw him with Bright Bones, that he could so seamlessly go from growly and deep to almost smooth and melodic and operatic.

  The lyrics, when he began actually singing, spoke of moonlight love and sunrise kisses, a chorus repeated with variations on that theme.

  Seven and Autumn danced, their first dance together moments after saying “I do,” and then after they’d spun together a few minutes, they gestured to us and we all danced, as Titus’s song transitioned to a faster, happier bop, a fun little number that was, if you listened to the lyrics closely, kind of dirty.

  Autumn and Seven’s backyard was large, their house sitting on a full acre with a small front yard and a lot of space between the houses on each side and a long rectangle behind leading to the ocean, and their private beach, accessible via a wooden stairway leading down from the bluff to the sand. The entire back of their house open
ed, accordion doors sliding apart from the middle, with wide flagstones paving a large area behind the house, featuring a built-in outdoor kitchen, a hand-built pergola, a fire pit with amphitheater-style stone bench seating, with a huge swath of silky grass leading the dune grass bluff. There was a white cloth-draped bar with a bartender and several long tables with catered food, courtesy of Fredrick Lyons, all set up on the flagstone paved areas.

  We all danced barefoot in the grass—that was, as a matter of fact, part of the invitation: dancing after the ceremony, barefoot in the grass. So there was a pile of shoes in the grass, with Titus Bright off to the side with his electric now, playing it solo, no backing music, just his guitar and his rough beautiful voice singing “your eyes in the car light, your skin in the starlight, let me out of this limelight, tangle up in these sheets all night.”

  Was it me or was he looking at me as I danced with Maaka, the big Maori? Was he watching me as he played? Were his pale, tan, almost yellow eyes following me, as I swayed with Maaka?

  Was it jealousy in those eyes?

  I’m no expert on men, but it looked like it, to me.

  I danced with Lon, one of Seven’s boxer friends, next. He was a welterweight, only an inch taller than my five-seven, but densely muscled and even dancing with me he moved like a panther, his inky black skin gleaming in the light as the sun would gleam off the coat of a panther. His smile was bright white, his eyes deep brown and friendly, and his voice as he made polite conversation with me was smooth and leonine. He danced with several inches of space between us, his hand polite and proper on my waist—he had a serious girlfriend, he informed me, who couldn’t make the wedding due to a work commitment.