Page 41 of Beauty and the Beach
When I drag my still-half-asleep self into the kitchen the next morning at eight o’clock, Phoenix is already there. He’s leaning against the marble countertop, dressed in a suit, sipping from a cup of something steaming—probably peppermint tea—and scrolling on his phone.
I’m still wearing my pink silk pajamas, and there’s still sleep gunk in my eyes.
“When you’ve cleaned yourself up,” he says without looking at me, “I’d like to see the clothing I had Wyatt send to you. Have you tried any of it on?”
“What, all the tweed and Ann Taylor?” I say blankly.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Yes.” He sets his drink down on the counter and turns his gaze on me, tucking his phone into one of those secret suit coat pockets only businessmen know about. “My family will judge every book by its cover, and they won’t change their minds after their first impressions are formed. So go shower, please, and then I’ll need to see those clothes before you choose something to wear.”
“I’m not a doll you can dress up however you want,” I say, rubbing my eyes to try to dispel the early morning crusties.
“I’m aware of that,” he says. “But I didn’t check what Wyatt sent. So while it will likely all be appropriate, I need to make certain. As long as the options are acceptable, I won’t interfere in your choices.” He pauses. “This was part of the contract you signed, so get moving.”
I don’t budge. “I’m hungry,” I say.
He glares at me. “I’ll make you some toast, all right? Just go. Good grief.”
“I don’t like grape?—”
“Iknow,” he says, exasperated. “I have raspberry.”
“But I don’t?—”
“Want anything with seeds that will get stuck in your teeth. I know.Go.”
“If youinsist…” I say, and his grumpy eyes turn even grumpier.
“Go!” he says, pointing out of the kitchen.
I grin. It’s only eight in the morning, and I’ve already gotten to put that look on his face. What more could a girl ask for?
I take my time in the shower, because it’s way nicer than the one at Nana Lu’s. Nana’s shower head shoots abusive bullets of water that could probably take an eye out. Phoenix’s water pressure is perfect, though, and there are two shower heads, and not once does the temperature cool down even though I’m in there for probably twenty minutes. When I step out, I slip into my fluffy white robe and then begin toweling my hair dry.
I emerge into the living room a few minutes later, both hands full of hangers. “This was too much,” I say to Phoenix, who’s sitting in a straight-backed chair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, his phone in his hand again. “I’m never going to wear all these.”
He buttons his phone off and exhales tiredly. “Yes, you will. You—” But he breaks off when he looks up at me, his dark brows rising. “What isthat?”
“It’s a robe,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I meant why are you wearing it?” His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze darting away from me. “I would prefer if everyone stayed fully dressed in communal areas of the house.”
“As would I,” I say, “but you insisted upon seeing whatWyatt sent before I change. So I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“I—fine.” He looks back at me, and a muscle jumps in his jaw as he grits out the rest of his words. “Fine.” He stands up and crosses the room in three long strides, his eyes on everything dangling from my hands. I hold out the clothes as he approaches, and he flips through them quickly like a shopper at a thrift store, the metal hangers digging into my skin as he moves. Then he backs away. “Any of that will do,” he says, already turning to his chair again. “And I believe Wyatt also included jewelry. Wear pearl earrings if you have any; Mavis wears pearls only and always.”
None of these things are really my style, but I did sign the contract, and I’m getting paid—the second installment appeared in my account last night—so I just nod in assent.
“I assume your grandmother knows we’re coming?” I say as I try to picture what kind of woman she might be.
“Oh, yes,” Phoenix says, his voice dry now. He sits back down. “She’s aware. She sent me this text this morning.” He holds his phone up, and I scoot forward, leaning down to get a closer look.
I almost choke when I see it. It’s a photo of Phoenix—a business portrait, maybe, in which his appearance is not worth mentioning because it’s too early for such things—and photoshopped next to him is a faceless bride.
The picture is as bizarre as it sounds. Just professional Phoenix and then a bride from a magazine, maybe, only there’s no face on her; just a hairstyle around a blank space.
“This borders on disturbing,” I say as my nerves jump. “Did she just send the image?”
“No,” he says, tucking his phone away. “She also expressed how excited she was to meet the woman who would fill in this photo.”
