I grunt and pause, needing a breather. God, I’m sweating and I still don’t have this damn thing on.
“How’s that coming, Violet? Would you like some help?” Britnay says from the other side of the door. To her credit, her voice is nothing but kind, but I know she must be able to hear my struggles.
I look in the mirror, having finally gotten the torture device up enough to create an even worse spare tire than I naturally have. Guess all that excess has to go somewhere. I look ridiculous and definitely don’t want anyone to see me like this, especially not barely-past twenty and barely-over-extra-small Britnay. “I’m fine. Just deciding if I like it,” I call out.
That’s a lie. I don’t like it. I hate it . . . a lot.
But I finish wiggling it on, repeating to myself, “It’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it.” Lastly, I slip the red dress back on over the undergarment and step back out. “What do you think?”
Mom eyes me critically. “You look uncomfortable. Can you walk in that thing?” We both know she’s not talking about the dress.
I take a few laps around the small area in front of the mirror. I raise one eyebrow, looking at Britnay who promised miracles and magic. “The legs are rolling up, the waist is rolling down, and I can’t breathe at all. But that’s probably a good thing because if this were any tighter, it’d be giving me a wedgie so bad I could smell my own ass.” I turn, looking at the ass in question. Admittedly, it does look . . . smooth, I guess would be the word. But even as I shift from one foot to the other, it doesn’t move at all. It looks unnatural.
Nature . . . that reminds me. “How do you pee in this thing, anyway? Am I supposed to go through the hell I just endured every time? In a public bathroom, or worse in this case, the bathroom of my in-laws-to-be?”
Britnay shakes her head, smiling like I’m ridiculous. “No, of course not.” My relief is short-lived, though. “You pee before you get dressed and then when you get undressed. You just, you know, hold it in between.”
Nana screeches. “That’s not healthy! A girl will get an infection if she holds it that long. The things you young ’uns come up with, so unnecessary. Violet, go take that ridiculous contraption off and wear that dress the way God and my pasta dinners made you. Perfect.”
Usually, I think Nana’s overreacting and even overly dramatic, but in this case, I’m taking her advice to heart. I go back in the fitting room, wiggle out of the spandex contraption with a lot of difficulty, including some very unladylike grunts, and slip back into the red dress with just my usual bra and panty set on.
I turn to the side, examining my belly again. It’s not flat, but it’s not exactly round either. But if going au natural or going squeezed to death by a spandex boa constrictor are my choices, au natural it is.
“I think this is the one for me. Do you think the length is okay?” I ask, still worried about the amount of leg sticking out of the hem. I mean, Ross called me Chicken Legs for so many years that even now, knowing I’m worlds away from the twiggy pubescent I used to be, I’m still sensitive about my legs.
Britnay’s assistant comes to the rescue. “Here, how about this?” He’s holding a large patterned scarf, which he does some magician trick with and then ties it around my waist in a fluffy knot. It has the effect of an overskirt, flowing out behind me like a train. Britnay high-fives him and then adds a brooch pin to the center of the knot.
I look in the mirror and smile. “It’s perfect. Classy but sassy, appropriate but creative. Thank you so much!”
Once everyone has made their dress selection, Britnay brings over shoes and jewelry to complete our looks. We look stunning, each and every one of us . . . from the neck down.
Estella claps. “Bella! But please tell me we can move on to the spa now. I’m ready to get pampered!”
I grin as I think that while she might not have been trying on dresses, she’s been plenty pampered with champagne and the fancy brunch. But a facial and haircut do seem to be in order, so after changing back into our regular clothes and handing off our dresses to be delivered, we hit the spa.
Chapter 17
Ross—Saturday—7 Days Until the Wedding
I look out the window of the bedroom, high over the city below, which is full of activity. Cars jetting this way and that, people walking to destinations unknown, and tall buildings of glass that hide the chaos of work, even on a Saturday afternoon.
It’s hard to believe that one week from today, I’ll be getting married. The fact that I don’t collapse into a ball of blubbering drunken nervousness speaks to just how far I’ve come already in the short time with Violet. I think about where I was a week ago—going out at night to random clubs, coming home alone, usually, but occasionally with women whose names I barely knew for one night of pleasure, and getting that ultimatum from Dad.
Now, in a blink of time, I spend my nights in bed with Violet, my days with thoughts of her running through my head, and my cock only hardens for her. For something that started out so fake, this feels so very real. And so very right.
I glance at the clock, putting a little fire in my pace. Violet should be back from her day of pampering any minute, and I need to be ready to go. I hope she had fun today. She certainly deserves it.
Not just because she works her ass off with her interior design work, her passion so readily apparent in her attention to detail and the beautiful spaces she creates, but because this whole relationship has taken on a life of its own. And I know I’m not an easy man to be connected to. Tonight’s gala is proof of that, and my primary hope is that we can get through the gauntlet of paparazzi unscathed. Though a very close second hope is that my family and Violet’s family get along without bloodshed.
Family. Both a blessing and a curse.
Dad has still been distant and judgy, Mom has moved on to excited acceptance, Court seems resigned to my being my apparently asshole self, and Abi keeps giving me scouring looks as if she can sense the true progress Vi and I have made with each other and is thrilled by it.
Violet’s family is over-the-moon blissful about us, zero concerns given to the speed of our courtship or that it came so hot on the heels of her breakup with Colin.
Her family is just that loving and supportive, their only wish to see her happy. Violet told me more about her mom and Nana and Papa over breakfast one day, and it’d only increased my respect for the entire Russo family. When a young and single Maria had gotten pregnant, her boyfriend had bailed, leaving not just her but the city, with no forwarding information. Alone and broke, she’d turned to her parents, and Nana and Papa had welcomed her back into their home, supporting Maria while she went to school and worked full-time and taking care of baby Violet. Those years only strengthened their bonds, so that even when Maria finished school and moved out into her own place with Violet, they got together frequently.
Somewhere in there is when Violet and Abi became friends, at dance class, of all places. I try to remember what they looked like, all gangly limbs and tight buns, but the memories are lost to time and too foggy. Because of Abi, Violet tagged along on a dozen different activities. She was able to get introduced to the right people, to get the right opportunities to show just how special she is.
And somehow, years later, here we are . . . about to get married.
I hear the front door open and then close as the click of heels across the foyer lands on my ears. She’s home.
I pull my tuxedo jacket on as I walk out. “We need to go. Mom asked that we get there early—” My voice dies as I see her.
She’s gorgeous in the deep red gown she’s chosen for tonight. Its short and bright, both daring choices, but she looks confident and comfortable. Her dark hair cascades down her back in waves, and her long, shapely legs end in red high heels that show the arch of her elegant feet.
“Holy fuck, Violet,” I stutter.
She grins and does a little walk in a circle, the patterned fabric of the overskirt flying out behind her like a cape. “You like?” she s
asses.
I wolf whistle for her. “I fucking love it. Goddamn, I want to bend you over the table right now, fist those curls in my hand, and slip that skirt over your ass to get at you.” Crude, but true, and Violet doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the flush covering her cheeks now.
“Don’t you dare mess me up. You have no idea how many people and how many hours it took to get me to look like this,” she says lightly, and I can tell she had fun today. “You sure the short length is okay for the gala? The sales associate swore that it’s seasonally appropriate, especially since the gala is an outside event. But . . .” she looks down, turning her leg back and forth. I can read her mind and hate the voice of doubt that I helped to put there with my thoughtless teasing when we were younger.
“It’s perfect and you look stunning. An absolutely ravishing lady in red.” Her sweet smile means more to me that her flush from my dirty talk . . .almost. Okay, maybe important in equal measures. But it’s enough to make me sway toward my gentlemanly side, for now. When we get home, all bets are off and that dress will be on the floor.
But for now, I offer her my arm, which she takes elegantly. “Shall we?”
* * *
We take my Camaro to the mansion, pulling up a little early, but that’s what Mom wanted. “When did you arrange for my family to arrive?”
“They’ll be here soon,” I remind her, thinking of the chauffeured limo I sent for them. I’m sure their whole block is going to be on their front porches, watching them leave this evening, and the image of Nana and Sofia waving to their neighbors like they’re queens makes me smile.
The grounds of the mansion have been turned into a fantasy, with twinkling lights hung from the branches of the trees in Mom’s manicured garden, round dining tables arranged in one area and lush couches for lounging set up on the rich, lush lawn.
The piece de resistance, however, has to be the flagstone patio, which has been transformed into a dance floor. It’s surrounded by floodlights that light up the patio itself and even the façade of the mansion, bathing them in a colorful glow.
“It’s beautiful,” Violet says, looking around. “Really summery, but classy. Whoever did the decor really highlighted the best of the space, both the gardens and the mansion.”
“Too bad we had to take down Abi’s tree house,” I reply, pointing to the left of the garden where an old maple used to stand before a lightning strike took it down three years ago. “I actually used it myself from time to time.”
“Huh, and I thought I was hallucinating when I told Abi it smelled like stinky boy,” Violet teases. “And it was a nice tree. We had a lot of really great sleepovers there.”
Even though we’re still early, there are still plenty of people here, early partygoers who represent the big money in the state. With them, of course, are plenty of media, with photographers and even a couple of TV crews set up to cover what is one of the biggest charity events of the year.
We make our way around, exchanging pleasantries, and I introduce Violet to everyone. So far, they seem pretty chill about her being my fiancée, though I see a few eagle-eyes notice her ring and raise an eyebrow. Well, metaphorically speaking. The truth is, I’m not sure many of these people, male or female, can move their foreheads enough to actually raise their brows anymore. But the same evaluating vibe is there. I suspect it would be more harshly judgmental if they knew the wedding was in one week, but no one asks us that, seeing it as improper and invitation-digging.
Finally, we find Abi, who has arrived early as instructed too. She’s a bit of a rebel, but she knows when to fight her battles and when to acquiesce. Violet and her hug like they haven’t seen each other in ages, though I know they saw each other two days ago.
I’m standing quietly by, listening to their girl talk when Karl comes up, dipping his head once. “Excuse me, sir, but your father would like to speak with you.”
“Of course . . . excuse me, ladies,” I tell them, giving Violet a peck on the cheek and whispering in her ear, “Relax, have fun. Trust me, after the champagne starts flowing, nobody’s going to notice a damn thing.” A saucy wink seems to put her at ease, and I trust that Abi won’t leave her to the wolves.
I follow Karl into the house and up to Dad’s study. The huge glass doors are open, and Dad stands on the balcony that overlooks the garden, looking pleased as he sips a gin. “Well, now, Ross, seems things are getting interesting.”
I walk over to his side, following his sight line. A black limo is parked in the drive, the driver helping Violet’s family exit. Two young women, who must be part of the triplets Vi told me about, look around in awe, clutching each other’s hands. Next comes Maria, and then Sofia and Nana get out last, the driver smiling and laughing at something Sofia says. Honestly, there’s no telling what just came out of her mouth to have an experienced never-show-a-reaction driver behaving so . . . normally.
Nana turns back, ducking into the limousine, and returns with a foil-covered dish before pinching the driver’s cheek. He waves and walks back around, getting in to pull away.
“Is that . . . did they . . . bring food to a catered affair?” Dad asks with a soft laugh. But as Karl runs up to greet the group of ladies, offering to take the dish, Dad turns to me. “Ross, tonight is important. To your mother and to the company.” I can feel the heat of his embarrassment, the fear that the Russos are going to make him look bad.
I smile wryly. “For the people you’re raising money for? Because let’s be real. They’re just the poster children for the real purpose of this party—to see and be seen, to negotiate back room deals and rub elbows with other people just like you. There’s just enough humanity left in that crowd out there to want a sad-eyed kid as the bow on top so you don’t seem like heartless Scrooges rolling around in your money.”
The muscle under Dad’s eye ticks. “You make it sound as if you’re not one of us. As if you didn’t grow up right here with this privilege. At least we’re trying to make a difference in the world, yes, by hobnobbing with the wealthy, but that’s how change happens on a large scale. It costs money, Ross. And if money offends your delicate sensibilities, when was the last time you made a difference on a personal level? I have three MBA candidates I’m mentoring this year through the university, and your mother reads at the homeless shelter four times a month.” Dad shakes his head, utterly disappointed . . . in me.
But he’s not done. The hits keep coming. “This is what I was saying. You’re nothing but an entitled brat who’s stomping his foot at any rules or expectations outside the boardroom, no matter how reasonable they may be. But this time, you’re going to hurt a lovely young woman in the process. Violet doesn’t deserve this, Son. She deserves better than to be used.”
I gape, incredulous.
It’s not that Dad doesn’t believe that this is real, not because of the speed or convenient timing. It’s because he thinks I’m not worthy of Violet, that she’s too good for me and could never actually love me. In a lot of ways, he’s one hundred percent right. She deserves the sun and the moon and everything she could ever wish for. But for my own father to say that I’m lacking somehow stings more than I would’ve ever thought it would.
“I love her, Dad. And I will do everything in my power to provide anything and everything she could ever need or want.” The words ring true, even to my own ears and heart, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.
He shakes his head like I’m missing the point, and I realize he thinks I intend to buy Violet’s affection. He couldn’t be more wrong. She isn’t with me for the money, is maybe the only woman who ever wasn’t, but for her own reasons.
Reasons that are changing, growing, morphing into something different, better. Just like my reasons . . . just like me.
But he doesn’t see that. Not yet. But I’ll show him and show Violet. Most importantly, I’ll show myself just how much I can grow.
I never considered myself a brat, even though my younger days were plagued by pranks and a devil-may-care
attitude. But even with everything I’ve been given, I have worked hard to get to where I am. Maybe I just played a little too hard too, I realize. Could Dad’s ultimatum be for my own good like Courtney said? A way to force me to grow up personally, not just professionally?
That idea sits uncomfortably on my shoulders, weighing me down and reframing so much of my childhood, my adulthood, my life.
“I need to go back to Violet. I’ll see you at the party,” I say neutrally, not belying any of the swirling thoughts racing through my head. Dad’s a shark, and if he thinks for one second that he’s making headway in whatever this battle is between us, he’ll go in for the kill to drive his point home. To be honest, I think I need to do a little self-reflection instead, not be beaten over the head with his take on my successes and failures.
Dad takes a sip of his gin. “Don’t . . .”
But I’m already out the door, not wanting to hear the rest of his decree. Don’t embarrass him? Don’t hurt Violet? Don’t be an immature asshole? All of the above?
I swear, I’ll show him . . . what?
What do I want to show him? Because the truth is that Dad’s right. This engagement’s a sham. I never would’ve done this if he hadn’t forced my hand. And Violet never would’ve dated me, much less planned to marry me, if she didn’t have a time clock pushing her pace. She’s doing this out of love, as weird as it is.
But that’s the thing. Dad doesn’t even know why Violet’s doing this, but he already knows what I’m just discovering. Her heart’s beautiful, as beautiful as anything I’ve ever encountered in my life.
I’m tempted to just load everyone back into the limo and leave, but when I reach Violet’s side again, she’s smiling. “Nana’s over the moon. The band leader here knows Sinatra. She’s made him promise . . . hey, what’s wrong?”
My Big Fat Fake Wedding Page 22
