Sabrina frowns. “What the hell was I on and thinking? I should have chosen this dress. This is prime catch-a-guy material.”
Jennifer glances down at the garment. “I think it’s chiffon, actually.”
“It’s lovely.” I step forward, reaching for it. “May I?”
The bridal shop employee turns it over, and I can’t help but run my fingers down it, imagining how it would feel against my skin when I slide it over my body.
When Andrew sees me in it.
When he catches an eyeful of the bare shoulder I’ll be showing—skin that might scorch from his hot blue gaze.
I imagine him slipping the sleeves all the way down, brushing me with his fingertips. I imagine his full mouth following, his hot tongue blazing a line where his hands just were, his teeth tugging along the way in little love bites designed to drive a sane woman crazy.
And I am insane.
Insane to think that there’s anything more to our little lie.
I shake my head, remembering that it isn’t real.
This relationship.
It’s only a weekend I have to make it through. And already, my imagination is running away with me.
Especially when Sabrina steps forward, her fingertips touching the fabric in my hands.
“You have to show this to Drew.”
I balk. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. No, I’m not. You have to. Because I mean, wow. My brother is going to swallow his tongue when he sees you in this.”
I prefer he do other things with his tongue, actually. But, as if he knows we’re talking about him, my phone buzzes in my low-slung purse and automatically I know it’s him.
I dig inside its confines, smiling the second I take out my cell.
His text is the first item on the screen in bold.
PITA: Having fun?
I one-hand type back, feeling a flush work its way under my skin. I lick my lips.
Me: Oh yeah. Tons of fun. Especially since I have one of your admirers helping me out as we speak.
He responds less than a second later.
PITA: One of my admirers? You’re going to have to be specific. I have so many…
Me: You are the humblest man I’ve ever met.
PITA: Would you like me if I was?
Me: It would certainly keep me from cursing you out as much as I do.
PITA: Admit it: You love cursing me out. You get off on it. Treating me like your bitch. I empathize with Domino more and more every day.
Me: Hey. Don’t you dare. I treat my cat very well, thank you.
PITA: My bad. I didn’t mean to assume that you don’t treat your pussy well…
PITA: Though I think I could do a better job at it.
I frown, responding immediately, my thumb working overtime on the screen.
Me: A better job at what exactly?
He doesn’t hesitate.
PITA: Treating your pussy well.
Bubbles appear on the screen and disappear just as quickly.
In fact… I know I can treat your pussy better than you can.
I suddenly can’t breathe, every inch of my skin tingling from head to toe, my throat dry.
Me: Oh yeah? You sure about that?
PITA: Oh, I’m very sure about that.
I’m very sure that I’ll treat your pussy the way no one else ever has or ever will.
I’m sure that I’ll give your sweet pussy all the love, care and devotion it could ever need. Lavishing it with my attention. Petting and stroking it softly the way it should be.
I’ll pet your pussy so good that you’ll never let anyone pet it again.
Would you like that, Nancy?
Would you like me to pet your pussy the way it needs?
I can’t talk. Can’t respond. Can’t react.
At least, not to Andrew’s text messages.
There’s a pile of mush where my body used to be, and the throbbing that was once in my chest is now between my legs, beating out of control.
I sway on my feet, lust making it hard to stay upright, and just as I move my thumb to respond to Andrew’s last text, I hear Sabrina’s voice right beside me.
I jump.
Shit.
I nearly forgot she was there, all my attention on my phone and Andrew’s texts and talk of how well he’s going to treat my pussy.
My stomach tightens as Sabrina’s stare meets mine.
“Um, hello, earth to Nancy.” She grins, a wide expression. “We’ve been calling your name for like ten seconds straight.”
“You have?”
She glances down at my phone and then back, whistling. “Whoo, girl. You’ve got it bad… And that is no lie.”
And suddenly, the seamstress comes in, breaking my pussy-focused reverie and snapping me out of it.
I slide my phone back into my purse, trying to forget it.
Forget the texts. Forget the feeling I just had.
Forget the comfort of Sabrina’s sister-like listening and Andrew’s shameless flirting.
Forget that seductive feeling of actually belonging to something.
Belonging to Andrew.
It’s all a lie. Whatever goes on this weekend…
Isn’t it?
Chapter 11
ANDREW
I’ve always hated this house.
It’s always been too massive. Too cold.
Too much.
It wasn’t enough that gigantic Greenwich estate sat on fourteen acres of manically perfect manicured lawns. Or that it boasted eight bedrooms, ten full bathrooms and enough fireplaces to have the Health Department called on us.
It was everything about it.
Four levels of decadence.
Recreation rooms, billiard rooms, wine cellars and movie theaters. Gyms, gourmet kitchens, reception halls and a seven-car garage.
Enough to fit a small city.
And it was all for us: The Fletchers.
All for a family that could have fit into a fourteenth of the space. A family that should have.
A family that was never a family to begin with.
Not after Grandfather died.
He had been the glue holding us together. And after his death, the glue—whatever bits of it had built, well, they dissolved.
The dissolution is now evident on the walls of the extravagant hallways—walls that still carry his image. Black and white photos of old, showing his youth, his vibrance, his life.
A life gone to waste protecting the wrong people. With the exception of one.
And for some reason, our beloved bride of the weekend, has yet to show her face, though I’ve been here for hours—a rarity.
I know one thing:
If Hannah’s MIA…
It’s because she
