Page 34 of Beauty and the Beach
I, meanwhile, daydream about what kind of imprint this ring would leave if I punched him in the nose.
He pulls his eyes away from my open zipper and then leans down so that his head hovers directly over my shoulder. “So what did you try to buy, Amsterdam?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it maybe…” He turns his head until his lips are right at my ear. “A dog bed?” he whispers.
And once again, I find myself gaping at him in the mirror. “He told you?” I say, outraged.
“Ahuman-sizeddog bed, I heard.”
“I was—it was—” But I’m too flustered to do anything but stutter, so I snap my mouth shut. “I don’t have to justify my purchases to you,” I say. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought you had a headache.”
“It’s gone.”
“Would you like me to bring it back?” I ask sweetly.
That grin of his widens. “How? Will you chatter incessantly in my ear for five minutes? That would do the trick.”
“Go away.”
“It’s almost time to get your dress on,” the nice stylist says. I can’t help but notice that all of them are ignoring Phoenix’s presence, even though he’s probably in the way. Does he get to do whatever he wants, just because he’s footing the bill?
“I’m not getting dressed with you in the room,” I tell him. “Go away.”
He stands up, his eyes still glittering with amusement. “I’ll be in the living room,” he says as he turns and heads for the door. “Our session is supposed to start in fifteen minutes, so try to be ready by then.” And with that he leaves, closing the door behind him.
The nice stylist offers to help me get into my dress, but I don’t feel like showing off my underwear to a complete stranger, so I decline. When the woman with the curling wand finally proclaims her job done, the three of them pack everything up while I take my dress into the bathroom to change.
And while it actually might have been helpful to have someone else there with me, I do manage to get everything on okay. There’s just some one-legged wobbling involved. But the dress is pretty much backless, so the zipper doesn’t go up too high, and I don’t step on or rip anything. When I’m in and zipped and tied and buttoned, that’s when I finally turn to the mirror—and my breath catches.
Because I look like a freaking princess. Not a princess at a ball, but a princess from a fairy tale—out in the woods, maybe, or riding a pure white horse. I look elegant and graceful and ethereal, with the flowing skirt of the dress and the loose curls tumbling over my shoulder.
Plus my contoured collar bones look great.
I smile a little, because I can’t help it. I know this marriage is going to be fake; I know we’re not really in love. But right now, I look like a woman who’s off to live her happily ever after, and it’s a good look on me.
The stylistsoohandahhwhen I come out of the bathroom, and I preen like a vain peacock. They hold me steady so I can step into my heels, and then we’re off—I have to gather the skirts of the dress just slightly when I go through the door and into the living room, letting them fall again with a pleasant rustle.
Phoenix doesn’t look up when I enter; he’s on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear, and there’s a little furrow between his brows as he speaks. “Let’s move that to the thirtieth, then,” he’s saying, “and schedule the next shipment one week prior.”
When Wyatt clears his throat, Phoenix glances at him; Wyatt gestures to me and the stylists spilling into the room, and Phoenix turns to look at us.
And at first, his gaze finds me for only the briefest second before jumping to the stylists; he gives me barely a glance, nothing more than noting my presence.
The double take doesn’t come until one second later.
I watch with immense satisfaction and triumph as his eyes fly back to me, widening so slightly I might be imagining it; his dark brows twitch, and he stops speaking in the middle of his sentence.
His pause lasts only two seconds; that’s how long he stares, his lips parted, his eyes blacker than ever. Then he looks away, clears his throat, and continues speaking. “And once those two go out,” he says smoothly into the phone, “we can work on finding a different distributor if need be.”
He sounds normal; he sounds the same. But there’s alittle muscle twitching in his jaw that wasn’t visible before, and the hand resting on the arm of the sofa is uncurling from a fist.
I smirk. Evoking this kind of reaction in him feels like winning the Superbowl. It shouldn’t just be me who’s secretly attracted to him.
“You look lovely, Miss Blakely,” Wyatt says with a little smile.
“Thank you. I feel lovely,” I admit as Phoenix says something about talking more next week. He hangs up a few seconds later and looks at me again. Then he turns to my stylists.
