Page 67 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess
For reasons I’m not completely sure about, I want to look extra nice for this wedding. Maybe it’s because I know Dex’s mom doesn’t like me; maybe it’s because I know Valencia Devlin is anxious to get her claws into him.
Or maybe it’s just because I want to impress Dex—because when his eyes skate over me with appreciation, something in my stomach flips over. For a second I feel bad that I’m trying to look nice for a guy—like I’m letting down all the strong, independent women out there or something—until I tell myself sternly that there’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to like how I look.
It’s just a little bitty baby crush, I tell myself as I swipe on a layer of shimmering eye shadow. If I’ve admitted it to Scarlett, I may as well own it. Just a baby crush, nothing more, and nothing to worry about.
It’s been a long time since I’ve bothered to do my makeup like this, and even longer since I haven’t had to cover up dark circles under my eyes. A full night of uninterrupted sleep will do that for you, I guess. Still, my hand is steady as I line my eyes and apply a few coats of mascara.
When my makeup is done, I move to my hair. It’s partly air-dried by now, and I blow dry the rest quickly until it falls shiny and smooth over my shoulders and down my back. Then, listening at the bedroom door to make sure I can still hear the sound of the shower, I slip out of my robe and step into my dress.
Despite the fact that I wear mostly long, flowing skirts, I rarely dress up. The silky fabric of the dress is a sensuous caress over my skin, and I smile at the feeling.
I tie the sash into a neat bow at the waist—by which I mean the loops are the same size but somehow the two leftover ends are vastly different lengths? How does that happen every time I tie a bow?—and then scootch it to the side so that it’s off center. Then I examine myself in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay.
Hair in place. Makeup done. Dress tasteful but sexy thanks to the v-neck.
I’m ready.
I pace for the next ten minutes, my nerves frazzled as I wait for Dex. At one point I freak out for no real reason and almost decide I’m too fancy, but I stop myself from taking off my makeup.
I look good. I haven’t looked this good in literal months. And I don’t have to be afraid of that. I deserve to look nice without worrying what Dex’s mom—or ex-girlfriend—will think about me.
“Right,” I say, taking a deep breath and channeling Scarlett. “I am a hot young thing”—I give a snort of laughter, because it’s just a funny thing to say about yourself—“and everything is fine. It’s just a dress and makeup, and this is just a wedding.”
“Talking to yourself?”
I spin around, my hand jumping to my chest. How did he open that door so quietly? Or was I just not paying enough attention?
Dex is dressed in a crisply fitted suit, his head bowed as he fiddles with a pair of silver cuff links. He looks…wow.
“I—yeah. I was,” I admit.
“Mmm,” he hums, still focused on his cuff links. “They say that’s one of the first…” But he looks up, and when his eyes find mine, his words trail off.
I raise one brow at him, amused. “One of the first…?”
“Signs of insanity,” he says faintly. His gaze sears into me, a brand on every inch of skin it touches. “Good grief,” he mutters under his breath as he takes me in, crossing the room in three long strides.
“Look who’s talking to himself now,” I say, teasing.
He pins me with a glare.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I say, stepping closer to him and reaching up to smooth the wrinkles out of his forehead. My fingers skate over his skin, my thumb trailing down between his brows. “Stop frowning.”
He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Your hands are so soft.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” he says, looking at me. He reaches up, his large hand encasing mine, and pulls down gently until my wrist hovers under his nose. He inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he takes in the scent of vanilla I sprayed there, and my cheeks heat at the feeling of his breath on my skin.
He’s a man lost in concentration. His nose skates back and forth at my pulse, his hand warm and steady around mine. Then he goes on, “It’s just…” He sighs, looking at me once more. Then, without breaking my gaze, he turns his face into my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm.
And I shouldn’t feel that kiss all the way down to my toes. It’s just my hand, after all. A tingling hum of electricity shouldn’t be zipping through my body.
But it is.
“Do you kiss all your fake girlfriends like that?” I say, breathless.
He presses one more kiss to my palm before giving me a strained smile. “Yep. It’s part of the Dexter Anthony Fake Boyfriend Treatment.” Then he clears his throat, taking a step back and rubbing the back of his neck. “You look incredible. Are you ready to go?”
