Inside, the ballroom is set up with rows and rows of white slipcovered chairs. And the aisle seats are all decorated with boughs of greenery with sprays of baby’s breath added in.
“Since we are running a little late, we should probably get to our seats right away and meet the family later.”
“How do we know where to sit?”
“My sister probably wants us to sit in the front rows because they’re reserved for family.”
“Great,” I groan. “Everyone is going to be looking at us.”
“Don’t worry.” Philippe is so calm that I have to do a double-take. I kind of thought he’d be so nervous, I’d have to worry about him giving himself another panic attack, but so far, he just looks…good.
Composed. Calm. Gorgeous.
If he was my real boyfriend…Don’t even go there. I mean, it’s hard not to when he looks so incredible and smells so good. He’s wearing a different cologne today. It’s lighter. But obviously expensive because it’s so complex that I can’t pick out a single individual note in it. His clothes fit him perfectly like they were made just for him, and knowing him, they might have been. The jacket shows off his broad shoulders, and those jeans…well, Granny was right about how they fit in the back end. His jet-black hair is combed back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black elastic. I’ve never seen him wear it that way before.
He’s clean-shaven, and the dark colors of his clothing bring out the steel grey of his eyes. I also took a moment in the cab, to appreciate his bone structure in a way I haven’t before. His face really is beautiful in a rugged masculine sort of way. His frame is way too big to pass for a male model, but god. Those cheekbones could cut something.
So could my nipples at the moment.
Damn.
I sit down heavily next to Philippe in the middle of the second row. Only a few other people are sitting down already, but Philippe doesn’t seem to mind or notice. I’m glad he’s not looking at me either. The dress has a built-in bra in the top, but I’m pretty sure there’d be some peaks sticking out at the moment. I cross my legs to try and cut off the flow of blood to my lady bits and to stop the strange shivery throbbing that’s going on down there, but it doesn’t work.
It gets worse when Philippe takes my hand and threads our fingers together. I have to admit, I really, really like his hands. They are strong. Capable. His fingers are long but powerful. His nails aren’t bitten at all, but they’re also not groomed. It looks like he cares for them the same way most of the rest of the world does—with a two-dollar set of nail clippers. I hate stuff on my nails, so I never paint them. I’m a fan of the nail clippers as well, and most of the time, I keep my nails trimmed fairly short. It’s annoying when they click on the keyboard at work. I hate that. Right now, though, I feel like I should have borrowed some of Granny’s nail polish and actually attempted painting them. Discreetly, I tuck my other hand into the feathers of my dress so that it’s not visible.
Eventually, the room fills up. There’s a really expensive-looking arch at the front, decorated with boughs of greenery and baby’s breath just like the aisles. The front of the ballroom is huge, with a massive set of floor to ceiling windows to let in natural light. It’s actually quite a pretty room for a hotel.
The buzz in the room immediately goes silent when the music starts playing over speakers that I didn’t notice before. All of a sudden, a row of guys in black tuxes walks up the aisle. I wonder, briefly, why Philippe isn’t in the wedding party. Maybe he was asked. He probably refused. He did say he’d pissed his mom off, so maybe that was part of it.
Philippe’s hand is still entangled with mine. He rubs his thumb over mine, and my skin breaks out in shivers. I didn’t throw a sweater or a shawl over the dress because I felt like it would be a waste of such a beautiful dress, but now I wish I had. He can probably see my goosebumps.
The guys line up at the front, and they’re followed by a trail of five bridesmaids who are absolutely gorgeous. They’re wearing beautiful flowy red dresses, have their hair done in the craziest, most selfie-worthy styles, and each sport a huge bouquet of greens and the signature tiny white flowers poking through that match the rest of the décor.
When the bride enters, everyone stands up. She’s on her mother’s arm. I don’t even notice the amazing dress first. No. I notice Philippe’s sister’s face. I know her name is Jennifer because I do know a little about his family. I’ve never seen her before, not even a picture, and now I’m stunned. She’s a goddess. Really tall. Somehow, she’s lithe and curvy at the same time. She has flawless skin and gorgeous dark hair that hangs in a fishtail braid down her back, and she’s radiant as she slowly walks down the aisle. She could definitely be a model. Philippe’s mom, who I have met once—around the same time I started at the company—is an older version of Jennifer, but she’s every bit as beautiful.
They walk down the aisle together, and when Philippe’s mom hands Jennifer off to her new husband, who is blond, tall, and athletic-looking, it made my eyes misty. I don’t even know them, but both
