Текст книги "Take Me"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

Chapter Seven

I sit in the silence of the Malibu house, sipping a sparkling water as I work at a small desk in the library. The library is my favorite room in this house, and it’s not really a room at all. Instead, it’s a level—a mezzanine—broken into a variety of sections. The comfy chairs and coffee tables are by the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. The bookshelves line the area that is visible from the massive staircase leading up from the entrance hall. The work areas are farther back, hidden from view, and it is in one of those quiet corners that I now sit.

It is late—barely three in the morning—and Damien is asleep in our bed.

I couldn’t sleep, and though I stayed in bed for hours, warm in Damien’s arms as I drifted in and out of a hazy dream state, I never managed to fall into slumber. I’m not sure if it was nerves or too much bourbon or the persistent thoughts of my mother, but in the end I gave up and came down here. Now I am sitting in the light of my laptop monitor putting the finishing touches on the gift I intend to give Damien on our wedding day—a scrapbook of our time together.

I’ve been working on it for months, even before we were engaged, and have managed to gather and edit photos ranging all the way from our very first meeting at a Dallas pageant to the present. I had originally intended it to be entirely electronic, but once he proposed and I realized that this was the perfect wedding-night gift for the man who owns everything, I decided that it needed to be tangible. I bought a leather-bound scrapbook with thick, archival paper, and have been carefully pasting in the images and writing captions and notes to him with my very best effort at penmanship.

Right now I am searching the computer for a picture of the Vineland Drive-In, because that is a memory I want him to keep, though I don’t think either one of us had any idea what movie was playing. Instead, we made out like teenagers in the backseat, kissing and exploring, touching and groping. And when Damien finally thrust hard inside me—when I came in sudden release and exultation—I am certain that my cry was at least as loud as the movie soundtrack.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I know without turning around that Damien is here. His walk, his scent, his presence—I don’t know what it is, but there is something in him that calls so profoundly to me that I am never unaware of him. If he is in the same room, my body knows—and wants.

I gently close the scrapbook, then tuck it into a drawer before turning to him.

“I don’t like waking up without you,” he says.

I smile. “Now you know how I feel.” Usually it is me who wakes up to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.

“What are you doing?”

“Just working on something.” I lift a shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh, really?” He lifts a brow and eyes the desk.

“Don’t even think about it, mister. You’ll see it on Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he murmurs, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. “Seems like there’s something I’m supposed to be doing on Saturday.”

I laugh, and fly out of the chair to smack him playfully on the chest. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, gently at first and then with increasing fervency. “I reached for you,” he says. “You weren’t there.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but to me they seem thick with meaning. I lean back so that I can see his face more clearly. “What’s wrong?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, deflecting my words but not my worry. There is something on Damien’s mind. He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Tell me what’s keeping you awake.”

“Bourbon,” I say. “Bridal jitters.”

“Not your mother?”

“That, too,” I admit.

“Whatever you want to do, you know that I support it. All I ask is that you remember this is your wedding, and it’s the only wedding you’re going to have.” He strokes my cheek, the touch melting me as much as the words. “Consider that when you decide how to handle your mother.”

I nod. “You’re right.” I take his hand. “And you? Is it wedding jitters that are bothering you? Is something going on at work?”

He turns, looking out toward the rows of polished bookshelves now standing like sentries in the dark. He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m starting to suspect he isn’t going to answer me at all. Then he says, “It’s Sofia.”

I try not to react, but I have no control over the quickening pace of my heart, and I’m certain that my eyes have gone unnaturally wide. “What about her?” I ask carefully. Sofia is so far off my list of favorite people, it isn’t even funny. Still, she was important to Damien when he was growing up, and despite a lot of recent shit, I know that she’s still important to him.

“I got an email from her. I saw it right after we got home. She wants to come to the wedding. She thinks that it could be arranged.”

The words hang in the air, like one of those cartoon anvils that is defying the laws of gravity and simply hovering, waiting for the moment when it will drop and crush the hapless coyote.

I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “Oh,” is all I can manage.

“That pretty much sums it up,” he says. He’s wearing pajama bottoms tied loosely around his waist, and he slides one hand into a pocket. With the other he massages his forehead with his thumb and finger.

“Do you want her to come?” I finally ask.

He lifts his head, looking at me as if I’ve gone insane. “No.”

A moment passes, and then he lets out a soft curse. “No,” he repeats, “and the not wanting makes me sad.” He meets my eyes. “But I meant what I said in the limo, about our choices and the people in our lives leading us to this point. To each other.” He steps closer to me. “It saddens me—hell, it angers me—but I have no regrets.”

“I don’t, either,” I say, thinking of my mother. Of who she is, what she’s done, and what I want. It’s all a turmoil inside me. A storm. I know what I should do, what I want to do. But I’m not certain it’s what I can do.

And though he hides it better than I do, I know that a similar storm is raging within Damien. How can it not be? He thrives on control. It is his lifeblood, his sustenance, and yet just the mention of Sofia’s name conjures the specter of everything that spun out of control, cutting a path of destruction through his life as effectively as a spinning propeller breaking loose from its axle.

“Damien,” I say, and I hear both longing and helplessness in my voice.

I see the heat flare in his eyes as he moves even closer to me. I take an automatic step backward, but am foiled by the desk. I stop, breathing hard, as he cages me in. I am wearing the button-down shirt that he abandoned on the floor when we went to bed. The tail hits me mid-thigh, and he uses his finger to trace the line of the hem, slowly easing it up, higher and higher.

My pulse quickens, and I feel the effects of his touch shimmering through me, hot and electric and alive.

Without thinking, I shift my stance, widening my legs. I want his hands upon me. I want his cock inside me. I want everything he has to give, and I want him to take everything he wants.

His hand slides between my legs and cups my sex, finding me desperately wet. “Tell me you want me,” he says, sliding his fingers inside me. I almost melt with pleasure.

“Always,” I say truthfully, and I know with absolute certainty that there will not ever be a time when I don’t respond to Damien’s presence. To his proximity, his heat. When I won’t open like a flower to him. When my body won’t crave his touch.

He thrusts another finger inside me and I grind down, shamelessly wanting more. But he denies me, and I hear myself whimper as he pulls his hand away. And then my whimper changes to a gasp when he grabs either side of the shirt and tugs it open, baring my breasts and sending buttons flying.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes in expectation of his mouth on my nipple. But the touch doesn’t come. Instead, he turns me around, then pulls the shirt the rest of the way off so that I am naked in front of him. I am facing the desk, my ass pressed against his erection, now hard steel beneath the thin pajama bottoms.

“I wanted you in the limo,” he says. “But I need you now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You know I do.” I turn to look at him as I speak, but he shakes his head.

“Eyes forward. Bend over. Hold on to the far side of the desk.”

I do as he says. I feel vulnerable. I feel him.

“I don’t think we ever took care of that little issue of punishment,” he says.

I lick my lips, my body already tight with anticipation and my sex clenching with desire.

“Is that what you want, Nikki? Shall I spank your ass? Shall I punish you with the sting of my palm, turning your ass pink and sweet, making you hot?”

“I’m already hot,” I say honestly. “And yes. Please, yes.” We both want this. Hell, we both need it. He needs to take back some of that control, and I so desperately need to give it to him. Because I need the storm to settle inside me as much as he needs my submission.

I do not turn around, but I can hear the soft rustle of material as he slips off the pajama bottoms. He steps closer, and the tip of his cock rubs along the crack of my ass. “Maybe I should just take you, fast and without warning.”

“Yes.” There is no hiding the need in my voice, and Damien chuckles.

“Soon,” he says, and then lands his palm sharply against my rear.

I cry out, more from surprise than pain, and then brace for the second blow. It comes fast, and then Damien’s palm is caressing the point of impact, smoothing out those brilliant red sparks, making them flow inside me, shifting from pain to a vibrant pleasure that pulses through me.

“More?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just spanks me again, and again. Eight more times, until my rear is red hot and sensitive and my cunt is so wet that I can feel my desire coating the inside of my thighs.

I am bent over the desk, my breasts rubbing against the wood with every impact, and now my nipples are as tight and hard and sensitive as my clit. I’m awash in sensation, my entire body sparking like a live wire, and with the right touch, I know that I will shatter.

I expect another smack, but this time his hands grab my hips instead. With his knee, he roughly shoves my legs apart. One hand comes down on my back, holding me in place over the desk. The other strokes my sex, opening me, readying me, though that is hardly necessary—as I am so ready for him to be inside me, I can hardly stand it.

“Damien, please,” I beg. “I need you in so many ways, but right now, I just need you to take me.”

He does, thank God. Gently at first, just the tip of his cock sliding into me as my muscles clench greedily around him. He withdraws, and I moan, immediately regretting the loss of him. Then, without warning, he slams into me, our bodies coming together brutally, violently, and I can feel his body tightening as his climax draws close. “Come with me, baby,” he says, his hand snaking around to stroke my clit.

It is that touch in combination with the sensation of being filled by Damien that sends me spiraling off the cliff, then grabbing on to the edge of the desk as Damien thrusts into me, faster and faster until he explodes as well, then collapses onto the carpet, clutching me around the waist and pulling me down with him.

I land on top of him, and he grins. “Again, Ms. Fairchild?”

“I could be convinced,” I say, though I am still breathless.

He lifts himself just high enough to kiss me. “Marry me,” he says, then grins.

“Yeah,” I say happily. “I think I will.”

“All I am saying is that there is a reason that tradition exists,” my mother says as we enter Phillipe Favreau’s Rodeo Drive boutique.

I am regretting not only having her come along today, but also that I answered her questions about my flower choices for the wedding. She has been harping on it ever since I explained that the cupcake tower would be decorated with wildflowers because that was the overall floral theme.

Wildflowers, in the world of Elizabeth Fairchild, are an epic fail where weddings are concerned.

“Orchids, lilies, gardenias. Darling, those are all lovely and elegant and classic.”

“I like what I’ve picked out, Mother.” I glance around the studio. There are only three gowns on mannequins and one very thin woman working behind a tall glass table that doubles as a desk. “Now, would you drop it?” I glance at the woman. “I’m Nikki Fairchild. I have an appointment with Alyssa for an alteration on a gown that arrived this morning.”

“Nikki Fairchild?” she repeats, looking a bit more flummoxed than is usual for store clerks on Rodeo Drive. “The Damien Stark gown?”

I frown. “Um, well, I’m going to be the one wearing it, but Damien ordered it, yes. Why? Is there a problem?”

She smiles an overly perky smile, and little knots of dread form in my stomach. “I’ll just get Alyssa. One moment.”

“Even magnolias,” Mother says.

“Would you stop it?” I am practically snarling, and Mother’s eyes go wide.

“Nichole! You need to learn to control yourself.”

I suck in both a breath and my temper, and refrain from telling her that she needs to learn to shut up. “I’m a little nervous,” I say. “I think there may be something wrong with the dress.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely. Do you have a picture?”

I glance sideways at her, thrown off kilter by the fact that she’s actually being soothing. “Um, sure.” I pull out my phone and call up the photographs we’d taken in Paris, both of Phillipe’s sketch and of the basted-together version that I wore for the initial fitting. Just seeing it makes me smile. It has a fitted bodice with a low neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are slim and hug my arms. The skirt is not a traditional princess style, but is instead sleek in the front and over my hips, showing off my curves. The back has a modified bustle that supports a train.

The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it’s an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.

I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.

“Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”

“I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.

All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.

And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I’m an idiot.

I turn away so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.

“A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”

I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I’m no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I’m young, I’m healthy, I’m pretty, and if she’s too goddamn stupid to see that—

My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.

“Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Alyssa.”

I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I’ve clenched it so tight that I’ve left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”

“Missing,” I repeat stupidly.

“We hope it’s just a clerical error in customs, and we’re doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word: missing. My dress is missing, and my wedding is Saturday. Tomorrow.

“. . . have been other shops with items missing . . .”

What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My wedding dress. I mean, I can’t just run to Target.

“. . . customs or the shipper, but we’re looking into it, and . . .”

And it’s not even just a wedding dress. It’s the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It’s the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.

One goddamn thing after another, and I can’t even lash out. Because it’s not this poor girl’s fault—hell, she’s mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamned flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.

“Ms. Fairchild?” Alyssa says, her voice ripe with concern. Her fingers brush over my arm, and I use the touch as an anchor to draw me out of my thoughts and back to reality. “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” my mother says firmly. “This can only be considered a good thing. It gives her a chance to find a dress that might actually flatter her figure.”

Alyssa’s eyes are wide, and she’s staring at my mother like she’s never met such a creature before. Hell, she probably hasn’t.

“Come on, Nichole. This is Beverly Hills. I’m sure we can find you a gown.”

“Get the hell out of here.” I did not plan the words, but I know the moment that they are out that I mean them with all my heart.

“Excuse me?”

“Texas,” I say. “Go back to Texas, Mother. Go now.”

“Texas! But, Nichole, how—”

“It’s Nikki,” I snap. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t listen.”

Beside us, I see Alyssa lick her lips and then fade into the background. At the glass desk, the thin girl seems overly interested in the single piece of paper on the surface.

I really don’t give a shit. Right then, decorum is the last thing on my mind.

“I can’t possibly go to Texas now. I’d miss the wedding.”

“That’s the idea,” I say. “I’ll have Grayson fly you. You’ll need to leave today so that he can be back in plenty of time. He is invited,” I add, my voice syrupy sweet.

“Darling, I’m your mother. You can’t ask me not to be at your wedding.”

I hesitate for just a moment, just long enough to hear Damien’s voice in my head talking about choices and paths and where they lead. And this choice leads to my wedding day. To a day of celebration. Or to a day with my mother harping in my ear. The woman who has, in so many ways, gone out of her way to steal the joy out of so many moments in my life.

“Nichole, don’t do this. I need—” She cuts herself off, her lips clamping tightly shut.

I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that I’ve been more of an idiot than I thought. My mother didn’t come here because my impending wedding spurred her to repair our relationship. And she didn’t come because she wanted to apologize for the horrible things she said to Damien.

She came because she spent every dime our family had a long time ago, and she sees a new cash cow in me. I don’t know what it is she needs—a new house, a new car, investment capital. I don’t know, and I don’t care. She’s not getting a dime of my money, and she’s sure as hell not getting Damien’s.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Nichole, no. You can’t do this.”

“You know what, Mother? I can.” I head for the door, my heart feeling lighter and my step springier. I glance back at her and smile. “And for that matter, why don’t you go ahead and find your own way home?”

Chapter Eight

“You’re amazing,” Damien says that night when I tell him what I did. “You once told me that you didn’t have the balls to stand up to your mother.” We’re in the swimming-pool-size bathtub, facing each other, our legs touching.

“I still don’t have balls,” I say with a laugh.

“Sure you do.” He reaches for my hand and tugs me toward him, then very deliberately cups my hand over his package. “These are all yours.”

“Damn straight,” I say, then capture his mouth in a kiss.

His arms go around me and he pulls me close, until I have no choice but to straddle him if I want to sit in any sort of comfortable position.

Not that straddling Damien is a hardship, especially when his erection is rubbing against my folds in a way that is very effectively taking my mind off the day’s drama.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, trapping me in the circle of his arms.

“I’m proud of me, too,” I say. “I took control of the situation. I decided what I wanted for this wedding, and I did what had to be done.” I kiss him. “I think I’m going to make a habit of going after the things I want.”

“Haven’t you always?”

I press a finger over his lips. “That’s not the point.”

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” I say, reaching between us to cup my hand around his erection. Slowly, I stroke the length of him. “Taking control can be very rewarding,” I say.

“Oh, yes.” His voice sounds raw.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stark?” I ask innocently. “You seem distracted.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m very focused. Very aware.”

“Are you?” I increase the pressure on his cock, then tease the tip with my thumb.

He sucks in air, and I see the shudder cut through him and the heat in his eyes.

He looks at me, and I smile, slow and easy and with all sorts of promise.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Ride me.”

Now it’s my turn to shudder in anticipation. I rise up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is hot and deep and demanding. His tongue wars with mine, thrusting and teasing. I lower myself onto his cock and ride him, lifting myself up and down in a frantic rhythm that sends water sloshing around the tub.

Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.

When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he’s touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien’s chest in utter satisfaction and release.

We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

“You haven’t told me what you’re doing about your dress,” Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

“I went back inside after Mother left,” I tell him. “It’s not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back.”

“Do you like it?”

I shrug. The truth is that it’s a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it’s not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

“It’s okay, really. I promise you’ll think I’m stunning.”

“I always do.”

I smile, and I’m still smiling as I start to drift off. I’m just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. “You still awake? I have a brilliant idea.”

“I’m always awake for brilliance,” he says.

“I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven.”

“Us?”

“Us girls,” I clarify.

“Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I’m going to exercise my veto power.”

“Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets.”

“Which is?”

“Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We’ll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won’t be professional, but they’ll be fun. And they’ll be us. And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?”

“I think you’re brilliant,” he says. “Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband.”

I smile in contentment and love. “Me, either,” I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.

Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He’s left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.

I put a waffle in the toaster—which pretty much sums up my culinary skills—and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it’s brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.

“I’ll make sure they’re delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don’t worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you’ll need it for your honeymoon.”

I roll my eyes, but since she’s right, I don’t argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It’s not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who’s still available, and to pick the best one.

I thank her and sign off, then try to decide on the appropriate form of pre-wedding relaxation. I actually managed to finish Damien’s scrapbook last night, so that’s out. And while my own work has been stacking up, somehow the idea of getting onto the computer and programming just doesn’t appeal.

About the only thing that does, actually, is a walk along the beach. And since I don’t want to go alone, I head downstairs to the first-floor guest suite, knock, and then head into Jamie’s darkened room.

Normally, I’d let her sleep. But since this is my last day as a single best friend, I figure an exception is in order. I pull the covers back and give her a little shake.

“Mmm, Ryan . . .”

I lift my brows, because that’s a very interesting development, but Jamie doesn’t indulge me by talking in her sleep again. Instead, she bolts upright, springing awake.

“Holy fuck, Nikki,” she screeches. “What the hell are you doing?”

I shrug. “Wanna take a walk on the beach?”

Fortunately, Jamie is easygoing. She shoots me a couple of dirty looks for good measure, throws in a curse, but gets dressed. We’re down at the beach within fifteen minutes.

“So, do you have anything to tell me?” I ask.

She stares at me like I’m a loon. “The moon isn’t made of green cheese. Masturbation doesn’t make you go blind. Jethro Tull is a band, not a guy. How do those work for you?”

“Not bad,” I say. “I was thinking more along the lines of Ryan.”

She slows her step. “What about him?”

“Ever since Damien had him take you home that time, you’ve had this thing.”

I expect her to deny it. Instead, she shrugs. “So?”

“So there really is a thing?”

“Not as far as he’s concerned,” she says, her tone frustrated. “As far as I can tell, I’m invisible to him.”

I hook my arm through hers. “I can’t imagine you being invisible to anyone.”

“I know, right? I mean, what’s up with that?”

I laugh. “So what are you going to do?”

“About Ryan?”

“About you.”

She slows her pace. “I don’t know. I didn’t get that commercial that Caleb is directing, but it felt nice doing the audition thing again. But I don’t want to get back on the same hamster wheel, you know? And I’m—” She glances at me, then clams up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“James . . .”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s just that everything changes with you getting married.”

“I’m still your best friend.” I stop walking, and tug her to a stop, too.

“Well, duh,” she says, in a way that sends a shock of relief running through me. “I just mean that I don’t think I’d do that great living by myself. In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a tendency to run a little wild. And you’re off the roommate market. I thought about living with Ollie, but that might be weird.”

“Ya think?”

She waves a hand. “Nah, that’s over,” she says, referring to their romps between the sheets. “But it still might be weird. Where is he, anyway? He’s coming to the wedding, right?”

“He’s supposed to be at the dinner tonight.” Since we’re not doing a big wedding, we’re not having an official rehearsal dinner. But we are getting a whole slew of our friends together. “He’s been in New York. Depositions, I think he said.”

“And Damien’s cool with him coming tonight?”

“Like you said, it might be weird, but on the whole it’s okay. They aren’t ever going to call each other up to go have a beer at the corner pub, but I think we can manage the occasional dinner and social event.”

“Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Change sucks.”

I think about the changes in my life since Damien entered it, and the ones that are coming. A wedding. Hopefully a family. I smile, then start walking again, tugging Jamie along beside me. “No,” I say firmly. “You’ll see. Change doesn’t have to suck at all.”

Le Caquelon in Santa Monica is closed tonight for our private party. Alaine, Damien’s childhood friend and best man, owns the fondue-style restaurant, and has graciously offered it for this evening’s party.

I love the place, with its funky decor and wild colors. The last time I was here, Damien and I shared a very private booth. Tonight, everyone is gathered in the main restaurant. We are laughing, talking, and toasting. And, of course, indulging in the various fondue pots that Alaine has scattered throughout.

He has turned off the restaurant’s normal New Age music in favor of piping Rat Pack tunes from the speakers. Apparently he is aware that Damien and I share a love of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the rest.

I smile at Damien, who is talking to Ollie and Evan across the room. He leaves them, then strides to me and pulls me close, easing me around the makeshift dance floor before dipping me, much to the amusement of the other guests. “I am a genius,” he says.

“So I’ve been told.”

“I also own a stereo,” he adds.

“This is also a fact that I’m aware of. I assume there’s some sort of connection coming.”

He points to the speakers. “We don’t need a band tomorrow. We just need a DJ.”