Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
And here I had the man of my dreams, a guy whose only goal was to make me happy, handing me a tuxedo beyond anything I could have imagined for myself. And instead of thanking him for being so thoughtful, instead of rejoicing that I got to wear something I loved on the arm of the man I’d fallen head over heels for… I was worrying that I wasn’t good enough for the fucking tuxedo.
I touched the tattoo on my hip. For years, I’d worked hard, focused exclusively on Daisy Chain, and told myself I was doing it for my sister. But that tiny, lightless existence was never what Daisy would have wanted for herself. It wasn’t what she’d want for me.
It was about time I did the brave, exciting thing.
I turned to Bash and kissed him fiercely, with all the love in my bruised and hopeful heart. “Thank you. For the tuxedo. For putting up with my nerves. For being so much more than I ever expected.” I kissed him again. “I can’t wait to wear it, Sebastian. I can’t wait to be on your arm.”
That might have been overstating the case somewhat—I was still a jangly mass of nerves about the party—but Bash was too kind to call me on it. Or maybe I’d simply exploded his brain with the force of my kisses. “But I’m putting Joey’s magic scarves in the breast pocket,” I added breathlessly.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, eyes glassy. “Yeah.”
Kenji barked from somewhere out in the hall. “Sebastian Dayne. Focus.”
Bash almost ran into the doorframe on his way out of the room, and it was enough to help me let go of some of my nerves. If the world’s hottest billionaire was a regular guy who could be knocked senseless by a hot kiss, then maybe we weren’t so different after all.
Maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to work things out.
I ran my hand over the buttery wool and satin of the jacket once again, then closed my eyes and prayed to my imaginary fairy godmother.
Let tonight go smoothly. No pumpkins.
But a few hours later, it became clear that my fairy godmother was a deceitful troll—or she was adhering hard to that one-wish-per-customer rule—because there were no happy endings in sight.
“Darling, who are you wearing?” a familiar voice asked from somewhere behind me.
I hadn’t expected an industry awards banquet to be quite so crowded or quite so filled with random socialites. I’d spotted at least two A-list actors and a politician just in the short time that Bash had stepped away to greet a colleague he recognized, and my nerves were back in full effect.
The throng of people had closed around me so thickly I didn’t realize the words were meant for me until a hand touched my arm.
I spun around and saw Constance Baxter-Hicks wearing a strapless black satin bombshell gown that made her look like she’d stepped out of an old Hollywood film. She was pure understated elegance, and it suited her to perfection.
“You’re outshining us all tonight, darling,” she said, air-kissing my cheek.
“Who, me?” I shook my head. “Look at you.”
She poked me with a jewel-encrusted clutch purse that matched the beading along the bust line of her gown. “This old thing?” She preened. “Don’t be silly. That tuxedo is to die for.”
Constance wasn’t wrong. As soon as I’d seen myself in the mirror, I’d vowed never to be caught dead in Joey’s bunny tux again. The look on Bash’s face when he’d first seen me in it had made me consider turning tricks if that’s what it took to keep dressing so fine. Second Chance Savers castoffs were great, but they couldn’t hold a candle to this.
“It’s McQueen,” I said with a sniff, feeling the familiar armor of my Sterling Chase persona fall over me. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
“Really? I would have imagined you in something a little more… quirky,” she said with a sparkle of understanding in her eye. “A Siriano tux gown perhaps… or at least a vintage Alberta Ferretti. Something with flair.”
I held out my arm to her. “Butter is better than flair. Feel this.”
Her grin widened when she ran her manicured fingers down my sleeve. “Grain de poudre… and surely it’s made from virgin wool. How… appropriate.”
My face heated. I’d been so intimidated by the woman at our first meeting I’d taken her at face value. Considering my own circumstances at the time, I should have known better than to assume that anyone at these parties was truly who they appeared to be. After the incident at the polo field, I’d started to wonder whether Constance was more aware than I’d given her credit for—which was both interesting and off-putting. Now I was pretty sure she’d confirmed it.
“I’ll have you know this is no longer virgin wool,” I said, my gaze searching the crowd for a particularly tall and handsome head… or, in a pinch, any of the other members of the brotherhood who were supposed to be attending. “It’s thoroughly debauched wool. The debauchiest.”