Page 29 of Tempted By the Bosshole

“Since he sent the food up, he must be downstairs. I’m starving,” I lie and pounce on the room service tray to avoid more questions I can’t answer.

“You never eat breakfast. Here.” She extracts a bottle of Coke Zero from her purse. “He told me to take care of you this morning.”

I shove the domed lid back over the pancakes and lunge for the bottle of carbonated heaven. “Thank you. Want something? He ordered enough food for an army.”

She shakes her head. “You okay? I mean, with everything today?”

“I’m afraid.” And I’m confused as hell.

“I know you think he’s marrying you for revenge, but I know men. There’s more between you two than his scheme.”

I scoff. “He’s got you fooled.”

“Honey, I’m no one’s fool. You know that.”

Normally, I do. But when it comes to manipulation and coercion, my groom-to-be is in a class all his own.

Before I can respond, another knock sounds on the door. Jen stomps over and pulls it wide, revealing a smartly dressed bald man carrying a chunky black case standing between two model-thin women in matching dresses whose hair sits piled on their heads. Bringing up the rear is a tall blonde with a long rolling rack draped in black plastic.

I frown. “Can I help you?”

“Isabella Shay?” the man asks in some Eastern European accent.

“Yes.”

“Excellent. I am Franz, your stylist. These are my assistants, Mita and Gita. Luna will be your bridal consultant. We are here to help.” He turns to the women. “Come. Come.”

As soon as I step back to admit them, they march into the suite collectively and begin unzipping cases and opening their bags.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“We are here to make you beautiful for your big day. Luna?”

The exotic blonde, who’s at least ten inches taller and twenty pounds thinner than me, bows her head. “Congratulations, Isabella. We will choose your wedding dress.” She rips the black plastic from the rolling rack and tosses away the protective cover. “Do you see one you would like to try on first?”

I gape. Fifty designer wedding dresses all hang in their elegant, sparkly glory. “Nathan sent you?”

“Mr. Price?” The man speaks. “Yes, of course. Now choose. We must have you ready by four.”

“I only need an hour.” From shower to shoes, I’m usually out the door in sixty minutes or less. “Makeup isn’t really my thing, and my hair is hopeless, so I quit fighting it.”

The entourage laughs.

“Today, you leave that to us. It will take longer, but you will look like a queen. Now…a dress. Pick.”

Reeling, I scan the rack. Apparently, Nathan doesn’t care that he’s making a mockery of marriage. I always envisioned speaking solemn vows to my groom with happy tears in my eyes and a heart full of joy. That’s not happening. Yeah, I could give him the figurative middle finger and wear the ugliest dress I can find. But I won’t stoop to his level. If we’re going to be legally bound, I’m going to treat this ceremony with the sanctity marriage deserves.

Blinking and overwhelmed, I turn to Jen. One truth hits me hard. “I always envisioned Mom being with me when I…”

As if she knows I’m going to bawl, my bestie hugs me. “I know, honey. I miss your mama, too. But I’m here for you. Pick the dress that makes you feel most beautiful. She’d love it, no matter what, because she loved you.”

“I don’t think I can. I’m not ready. Everything is happening so fast.”

She squeezes my hand. “Maybe that’s why Nathan sent me here early.”

I don’t want to give him props, but I’m truly grateful that I’m not getting ready for my wedding alone.

A handful of dresses and forty minutes later, I’m frustrated. Gowns that look absolutely stunning on the rack only accentuate the fact I have hips, boobs, and a five-foot-nothing stature.

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