Page 32 of Beauty and the Beach
We tuck her into her bed and turn on Jeopardy—her favorite—and then I press one last kiss to her fluffy hair.
“Bye, Nana,” I say, and with another wave, we leave.
By the time I get home after seeing Maggie off, it’s evening, and I’m exhausted. I would love nothing more than to curl up in bed with a book. But I check my email first, and sure enough, the contract is ready and waiting for me to sign. I read it through, not once but twice, and then, after staring at the signature line for a solid two minutes, I sign it digitally.
The first payment from Phoenix hits my account the next morning.
Holland
“I don’t wantto do this.”
“I don’t care.”
We’re standing in the hallway of a very nice hotel, bags in tow, staring at a fancy door with a gold110on it. It’s a set of double doors, actually, and it’s at the end of the hallway, so I assume it’s a suite. I’m not surprised; this is Phoenix we’re talking about. He probably doesn’t use regular hotel rooms.
I have my wedding dress bag draped over my arm, and it’s heavier than it should be. Wyatt, bless his heart, is carrying the bag that has my shoes, jewelry, and beauty supplies inside. That one isn’t light either, but I don’t notice any signs on his face that it’s too much. Either way, I bet he’d love to put it down, and I’d like to hang my dress up somewhere too, instead of carrying it.
But to do that, I’d need to enter the hotel room.
I glower at Phoenix—who, by the way, is carrying exactlynothing—and then reiterate my point. “I brought my own makeup, Penguin. My own hair supplies too. I don’t need a team of people to help me get ready for wedding pictures?—”
But I’m forced into silence as Phoenix steps suddenly toward me; my jaw snaps shut as I shuffle back. The tan carpet is so thick and plush that our footsteps are silent.
“Did you or did you not sign the contract?” Phoenix saysquietly, his expression heartlessly impassive. He’s already wearing his wedding clothes; a suit, thank goodness, rather than a tuxedo, navy blue and tailored to perfection. His hair is styled more carefully than normal, too, swept back in a way that somehow looks effortless. The hallway light above us casts shadows over his face, illuminating his sharp cheekbones.
He looks good. That’s what I’m trying to say here; he looks really, really good.
I swallow and square my shoulders, trying not to think about my current velour tracksuit ensemble. “Yes,” I say. “I signed it.”
He takes another step toward me, and that faint leather-and-mahogany scent tickles my nose. “And did you or did you not receive your first payment?”
“I received it.”
He nods slowly, raising one eyebrow. “Then you know that you’re required to adhere to whatever style I believe is appropriate when interacting with my family. Since these portraits will be used as proof of our union, they fall under that umbrella.” He looks down at me for another second before jerking his chin over my shoulder, in the direction of the door to the suite. “So let’s go, Amsterdam. We don’t have all day, and believe it or not, I’d like to get this over with just as much as you would.”
“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you pick out the dress too?” I say. “Why stop at the makeup and hair?”
“Because I don’t believe you incapable of choosing a nice wedding dress,” he says. “You prefer casual clothing, but you’re neither cheap nor trashy, and you know what looks good on you. You were better suited to choosing a gown than I would have been.”
I blink at him in surprise—I’m pretty sure that was a compliment—but he keeps talking.
“Let’sgo.” And with that, he reaches around me and slides the card key through the reader; from behind me sounds a little beep. Phoenix steps past me and pushes the door open, disappearing into the suite. Wyatt follows him, and I’m left with no choice but to do the same.
I try to be classy about my amazement, but in truth, it’s the biggest hotel room I’ve ever seen. It’s not even just one room; it’s multiple. The double doors open into a large, pristine living area, with a flat-screen TV and several stiff-looking couches. There’s a little kitchenette off in one corner and a few rooms off the living area. Everything is very neat and very clean, which is intimidating; I hope there’s no dirt or mud on my shoes.
Phoenix walks like he knows where he’s going, so I just follow him. He passes through the TV area and into one of the rooms on the other side, which turns out to be a giant bedroom, complete with vanity, closet, and a jacuzzi in one corner. This is my stop, I can tell, judging by the three ladies pulling out cases of makeup and a box of styling tools. They’re dressed all in black, and they work with a brisk efficiency that can only come from being hired by Phoenix.
“Do you have everything you need?” he says, looking around the room.
“I think so,” I say with a sigh.
He cocks his brow at me. “I was talking to your stylists.”
Of course he was. Heat rises in my face, but I ignore it.
“We have everything,” one of the ladies says—the nicest-looking one, and the youngest. She gives Phoenix a little smile, and he jerks his head in satisfaction. Then he turns to me.
“Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He hesitates for a second and then pulls something out. “Put this on.”
