She makes a face, like of course you have your own tailor, the action breaking the tension.
I change back into my polo and slacks, finding her in the shoe section examining a pair of heels, presumably for brides since they’re white. She strokes a finger along the satin material then checks the price tag, gently returning it to its display.
“You like those?”
“Not exactly in my price range,” she shrugs modestly, leading me to the front register. I pull out good old Dad’s trusty credit card to pay for the tux. Who knows if I’ll ever run into a limit on this thing.
Well, I guess I would if I’d refused to marry Serena.
We exit the shop and I open the waiting town car door for her, settling in next to her in the back as she gives Davis the address of the bakery, only a few blocks away.
“What are we trying today?” I ask.
“Laura has a sampling for us of different flavor combinations.”
“As good as those ribs?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “But no barbecue cakes. I’ve attended samplings with other clients before, and my favorites are the tuxedo torte and salted caramel cake.”
“You’ve got a sweet tooth?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she sighs. “And a savory one. I need to get my butt to the gym more often.”
I frown at her. “You look great the way you are.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s nice of you to say, but-”
“I’m being serious.”
“I- We’re here.”
I watch her for a moment more, but her face doesn’t hold any clue to what she’s thinking.
A redhead with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail welcomes us inside, the smell of freshly baked desserts hitting me as soon as we walk in. Yeah, I’ll need to try everything in here.
“It’s great to see you again,” the woman says, pulling Mackenzie in for a hug. “I wasn’t sure if you’d forgotten about me.”
“I haven’t,” she smiles. “Business was slow for a bit, but it’s picking up now.”
“Awesome. Hi, I’m Laura,” she greets me, shaking my hand. “Are you ready to sample some cake?”
“Always,” I tell her, my stomach rumbling.
Over in the shop’s corner, away from the pastry cases, is a small table set up with bite-size pieces of cake, each one neatly labeled with the flavor.
“Mackenzie didn’t know what you’d like, so I prepared a variety. Our most popular is the chocolate raspberry truffle cake. It’s got raspberry liqueur and dark chocolate ganache inside the chocolate cake. A lot of couples also like the salted caramel one. It’s roasted almond cake brushed with Amaretto and has caramel infused buttercream and salted caramel drizzled between the layers.”
“That’s the one I like,” Mackenzie whispers, eyeing it hungrily.
“By all means then.” I spear a piece with a fork on the table and hold it out to her, waiting to see if she’ll eat it the same way she tried that mac and cheese last time.
She eyes me knowingly as she carefully takes the fork from me to try it herself, letting out a small groan as she chews. “I’m not sure what kind of witchcraft you do, Laura, but please don’t stop.”
The woman lets loose a belly laugh, turning toward the door as two customers walk in. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I take my own bite of the salted caramel cake, discovering Mackenzie’s intense devotion to it. “Holy fuck. How do you know all the best places to eat in this city?”
She grins widely, covering her mouth as she chews the chocolate raspberry one next. “That’s my job.”
“All right, what else do we have?” I study the labels, each one sounding better than the last. Red velvet and cream cheese, lemon and blackberry buttercream, tiramisu and rum.
“How about the bourbon vanilla and coconut cream?”
“Eh, not a fan of coconut,” I tell her, selecting the lemon and blackberry one.
“More for me then.” She licks frosting off her fingers slowly, completely unaware of how provocative she’s being.
“Tell me what you think of this.” I slide my plate over to her, waiting as she chews it thoughtfully, her tongue peeking out to lick a dab of frosting off her lip.
“The lemon’s light and tart, and paired with the rich sweetness of the blackberry, the whole thing comes together really well.”
She sounds like some cake connoisseur on the Food Network. But it’s not her words I’m focused on. It’s her mouth.
“What about this?” I find that tuxedo torte she mentioned earlier and put it in front of her, cutting off a small piece for myself.
“Mmm,” she moans, eyes closing in delight as she takes that first bite. My pants grow a little tight at her sounds of pleasure, the expression of bliss on her face.
“You’ve got some frosting right-” I motion to the corner of her lip, but she keeps missing it as she tries to get it. I reach out, thumbing the spot away, and watch as her breaths pick up, eyes wide as she looks back at me.
So I affect her then? Good to know.
“You like the tuxedo cake?” Laura asks, joining us again. “There’s white chocolate mousse inside and a dark chocolate silk frosting outside.”
“We’ll go with this one,” I tell her, still staring at Mackenzie as I lick the frosting off my thumb.
“Great!” Laura exclaims, oblivious to anything else. “How many guests will it need to feed?”
“About four hundred,” Mackenzie says, finally looking away. “So I think we’ll need two cakes, five tiers each.”
“Wow, okay. Do you want both of them the same or different-”
“The other will be salted caramel,” I answer.
“For all the tiers?”
“All of them.”
“You don’t have to pick those just because I like them,” Mackenzie murmurs.
“It’s what I want.”
She flushes, ducking her head down, and Laura smiles. “That’s really sweet. So when is the wedding?”
“It depends on the venue we decide on, but probably sometime next month.”
“How long have you guys been together? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
Mackenzie’s jaw drops, her face taking on a panicked expression. “No, we’re not- He’s not- I’m planning his wedding.”
“Oh!” Laura’s cheeks briefly turn as red as her hair. “I’m so sorry. I totally misread things. I’ll just, um, go grab my notebook so we can discuss design.”
It’s silent as she leaves us to dash in the back area. Laura didn’t misread things, though. Mackenzie and I have more chemistry than I’ll ever have with my actual bride.
“I thought I told her you were a client,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Honest mistake,” I shrug, uneasy with Mackenzie’s level of apparent embarrassment. Is it because of me personally, or just because she always likes to stay professional?
“Not that marrying you would be a bad thing,” she rushes to add, reading my face. “But, you know…” she trails off.
“It’s fine,” I shrug again, not sure what to say.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
“For what?”
“Everything, I guess. How Serena didn’t even want to be here today. How you have to go through with this in the first place.”
“Not your fault.”
She turns around to check on Laura in the back, but pauses as I say, “If I didn’t have you to do this with, though, it’d be a hell of a lot more unbearable.”
She glances over her shoulder briefly, hazel eyes sorrowful as she opens the door and steps out of view.
I turn back to the table, finishing off the rest of the tuxedo torte. If nothing else, at least we’ll have incredible cake.
Chapter Eight
Mackenzie
“Thanks for giving me a ride. You really didn’t have to.”
Gabriel looks over at me, rolling his eyes the slightest bit. “Stop thanking
me. Of course I’m bringing you home.”
I face forward, still uneasy after Laura’s comment earlier. I can’t fault her, though. Objectively, it probably did appear that way from an outsider’s point of view.
But I’m obviously not marrying Gabriel. We come from separate worlds, as evidenced by my god awful apartment building we’re approaching now, the graffiti along the brick exterior doing nothing to help matters.
“I’ll see you in a few days,” I tell him, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “We’ll look at photographer portfolios and pick out someone. Serena said she didn’t care who.”
He nods, unbuckling his seatbelt as we come to a stop.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t have to-”
I give up at his pointed glare, getting out of the car and unlocking the door to my building.
He follows close behind, his gaze shifting around like he’s expecting a mugger to pop out at any moment.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he says, no break in his stride as we start up the steps. “But I still don’t like the thought of you living here alone.”
Why should it matter to him? “I live on the top floor. No one ever robs the top floor.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Maybe in your kind of building,” I concede. The penthouse would be the most profitable. “But not in a walk-up on the seventh floor. No easy getaway.”
He doesn’t appear convinced.
“I’ve lived here four months, okay?” I tell him, suddenly defensive. “And it’s not my first choice either, but nothing’s ever happened. And once I have enough saved up and Sweet Events is steadier, I plan on moving.”
The beer cans have disappeared from the landing on the second floor, the stench of pot lingering in its place. Not much of an upgrade.
I wince at the used condom in the corner of the fifth floor landing, but hey, at least whoever used it could afford protection.
He’s silent, thoughtfully mulling something over until we reach my door.
“What if I helped you out with your business?”
My keys nearly slip out of my hold. “What?”
“Like a loan. To get you back on your feet.”
I immediately shake my head. No way. I already owe my parents money they lent me. “Gabriel, no-”
“Okay, a gift.”
I sigh. “That’s even worse.” I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.
“All right, an investment in your business. I believe in it. In you.”
My heart warms at his earnestness. “I appreciate it, but no,” I tell him firmly. “Redecorating my office was more than enough.” I still can’t get over that. Every time I sit down at my desk, I’m in love with everything he did all over again.
I mean, it’s not him I’m in love with, just the gesture.
Obviously.
“I’ll be fine.” And if business keeps picking up, I really will be. I already had two people walk in off the street yesterday after seeing the new decal on the window. Why hadn’t I thought of putting something like that up before? Plus, the paycheck from Mr. Bishop will wipe out all my old debts. I’ll be free to start fresh.
“I just… want to help you. You deserve it,” he says quietly, his words reminding me anew of his request the other day asking me to let him help.
I impulsively lean into him, reaching up to hug his broad shoulders. “Thank you.”
After an initial moment of surprise, he returns the embrace, his arms wrapping around my lower back. This close, his cologne smells even more intoxicating, the fabric of his shirt soft against my cheek. I settle in, secure against him, and shut my eyes, weak in the face of such warmth. When was the last time a guy really hugged me? And has it ever felt so… amazing?
I step away, tilting my head down so he can’t see the heat beginning to lick my cheeks, discomfited by the direction of my thoughts. “Bye, Gabriel.”
I barely give him a chance to respond before I open my door and hurry inside, my stomach fluttering. What does it mean that all I can think about is when I’ll see him next?
No, it’s fine. Gabriel could introduce me to new industry contacts, new customers. Wealthy ones with money to burn. I’m just… cultivating a connection. Building a relationship with my client. A professional one. Not anything more.
It can’t be anything more.
“Ah, and this is the bride. Gorgeous,” Louise beams, immediately enamored with Serena.
The two of us walk into Bewitching Bridal a couple days after my visit here with Gabriel, the only day I could get her to commit to picking out a dress.
I don’t normally go shopping with the brides I work with, who generally prefer their family and friends to join them, but I have a gut feeling she wouldn’t pick one out if I didn’t drag her here. And from what it sounds like, she doesn’t have many close friends or family other than her father.
“Your bone structure,” Louise continues, studying her. “It’s unmatched. We’d love to feature you on our social media if you buy a dress from us.”
She shrugs one shoulder uncomfortably, walking past to examine a display rack.
“They’ll make beautiful babies,” Louise comments, making my stomach turn.
It’s true, though. They will.
I stride over to where a trio of dresses hang that I asked Louise to pull beforehand and steer Serena over to a bridal dressing room, passing by a three paneled mirror and pedestal intended for everyone to ooh and ahh at the bride.
“I hope you don’t mind that I preselected a few choices for you to get the ball rolling. You never mentioned any specific design preferences, so I chose an A-line, ball gown, and sheath.” I hang the dresses next to her, each one beautiful, intricately decadent, and with a price tag to match. “Honestly, you’d look great in any of them. Your figure is flattering to any style.”
“Thank you,” she replies routinely, as if compliments mean nothing to her.
Right.
“Do you like any of them?”
“Sure.” She grabs the one closest to her, wrinkling the material enough that my fingers twitch, itching for her to show some respect to that dress. It costs more than I normally make in months of work.
“We could always have something custom designed too.” There’s plenty of money in the budget to blow on a rush job like that.
“No, this is fine.”
She steps into the dressing room and I follow, helping her into the ball gown she picked, the metallic beading along the bodice making the dress appear to sparkle as she moves under the light. “I thought the silver would go nicely with your color scheme.”
She nods and walks back out to the pedestal, gazing at herself in the mirror as I lace up the corset, a wrinkle forming between her fair brows.
“That post of you and Gabriel at the wedding venue got a lot of traction. You two look… good together.” I ignore that churning in my stomach, finishing up the laces before spreading the tulle and lace out around her so she looks like a fairytale princess.
“Thank you,” she says again, the sound devoid of any emotion.
I’ve had Bridezillas before, but this is almost worse - this apathy. How can she not care this much? Gabriel is a catch. Gorgeous, charming, kind, not to mention loaded - what else could she want?
“I’ve noticed you don’t seem all that excited to participate in the wedding planning,” I say as tactfully as I can, half wanting to shake her. This would be the chance of a lifetime for countless women.
“No,” she says simply, scrutinizing herself for another moment until her eyes cut to me, a sadness in them that’s there every time I see her. “I’ve been preoccupied with a few other things.”
I hold back a snort. No kidding.
“I’m on the board of several New York charities,” she continues. “So it’s hard to fit in this wedding planning between meetings.”
I stare at her. So were a
ll those times she claimed she had to leave for legitimate reasons? “Why didn’t you say something? I can easily work around your schedule.”
“I don’t like being a bother,” she demurs, crossing her arms over her stomach, hunching in on herself.
“Serena, it’s not a bother. I’m here to make your life easier.”
She turns to face me rather than my reflection, and pleads, “Can you just do it all then? All the rest of it? I don’t want to deal with it anymore. Don’t want to think about it.”
“If you want,” I agree, slightly taken aback at the first true emotion she’s shown. “But why did you agree to this then if you hate the idea so much?”
She bites her lip, looking conflicted for a moment before she admits, “I thought I was marrying his brother, Archer.”
Yeah, that much was obvious during our initial meeting.
“Dad said it was Harold Bishop’s son and I assumed… well, you know what they say about that.” Her nails dig into her sides, my heart jumping at the damage she might do to the dress. “Anyway, it’s too late to back out now. And I… I shouldn’t be talking about this to you, should I?”
“No, it’s fine,” I reassure her. “I signed an NDA. You can talk to me anytime you want.” Now that I know where she’s coming from, at least her behavior is more logical.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she should make an effort to get to know Gabriel better, that he has more to offer than anything this Archer guy could, but I stay silent instead.
I get the sense few people truly appreciate Gabriel, and a part of me wants to keep that side I see of him between us. Something private. Something earned.
It’s selfish of me, but I can’t bring myself to give it up.
“Thanks, Mackenzie,” she smiles sadly. “I’ll take this dress.”
“Don’t you want to see what the others look like?”
“No, I’m good. Can you unlace me?”
We return to the dressing room and I dutifully untie the corset, helping her step out of the many layers and back into her designer dress. “We’ll have to alter it to fit you-”
“How about I just send you my measurements? It’ll be fine. I actually have a meeting soon.”
Resisting the Billionaire Page 8
