Page 20 of Beyond the Temptation: Vol 2

Margaret’s the one who answers, her face going pale. She has unzipped one of the garment bags and is pulling a jacket from the hanger, inspecting the label. “Theseare Tom Ford,” she explains, as if that should mean something.”These are five-thousand-dollar tuxedos. You’re not going to get them bloody, are you?”

“Six,” Lacey says softly. “They are each six-thousand dollar tuxedos.”

Brute whoops and slaps a hand against the shredded knee of his black jeans. “You’re fucking me,” he says. “My first bike didn’t cost six Gs.”

I shoot Brute a look, growing more suspicious as the seconds pass. I’m used to the champagne crowd passing me a couple crisp hundreds in an envelope after a wedding—not a bad tip on top of my fixed rate for a gig that basically requires standing around and looking mean. But a six grand uniform?

I lift my chin. “What’s the deal with the party?” I ask. “Some kind of celebrity or something?”

Lacey shakes her head. “No. Just a wealthy couple who wants a certain experience for their special day.”

“Experience,” Brute scoffs, and he looks like he’s about to say something that would be better not to repeat in front of the woman who signs our checks, so I shoot him a look.

“You can keep them,” Lacey says quickly, lifting her chin. “I know you may not have a lot of use for tuxedos, but they’re not rented, so you can keep them after the event.Sell them, make a little cash back. I don’t care what you do with them. But I need you to wear them.” She looks at Brute, then me, her plush pink lips pursed in thought. She meets my eyes and for a second, she almost looks shy. “Please,” she says. “I’d consider it a personal favor. Just this once.”

The way she says please tugs at something deep in my chest. “It’s only for this wedding?” I ask.

She visibly relaxes, as if she knows she’ s got me halfway there. She rushes to reassure me. “Yes, just the wedding. You can wear whatever you want to the rehearsal dinner.” She lifts a brow at Brute. “As long as it complies with the dress code,” she adds, making sure Brute knows his frayed band tees and MC leathers are never going to be appropriate attire at the Lantana.

I look at Brute. “You in?” I ask, making it clear from my tone that we’re in.

He laces his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. “Aw, fuck it. I haven’t worn a tux since junior prom. Maybe I’ll get just as lucky wearing it this time.”

He laughs, and I shrug out of my leather vest. “Where do we change?”

CHAPTER THREE

LACEY

I arrive at the rehearsal dinner in my standard attire: an A-line little black dress with spaghetti straps. My nerves are so frayed my skin is itching. I need every tool I’ve got to feel powerful, together, and sexy.

Tyson Warner and Jacinda Acosta, the bride and groom, aren’t due to arrive for another hour, but since they entire family is staying on the Lantana estate for the wedding, various elderly aunts and uncles arrive early to the dining space we call the Abronia Room.

My hospitality staff of eighteen are already in place. The tables are extravagantly set with bright yellow and orange flowers, pale yellow water goblets, and lots of vibrant fresh greens. Perfectly caramelized Portuguese egg custard tarts are displayed on tall, tiered crystal cake displays beside petit fours wrapped in pale yellow mini cupcake papers, our chef’s elegant take on the Welsh tea cake. These touches, the menu that honors both sides of the family’s heritage, are just part of what makes the Lantana so special.

If I weren’t dreading everything about this wedding, I’d feel the same pride I always do at the beautiful work we do.

I survey the activity from the far corner of the room where an elegant white marble bar is lit by the soft light of Edison bulbs and string lights. My hair is loose tonight, the collarbone-length cut razor-sharp and smooth. I peek at my blood-red lipstick in the mirror behind the bar until the bartenders hustle in carrying trays of condiments and interrupt my view.

I adjust the tiny earpiece and receiver clipped to my dress and click the button to answer a question from the head of housekeeping through a discreet walkie talkie. The last hour is basically controlled chaos, with me troubleshooting everything from a clogged toilet in the men’s room to a missing picture frame that the couple wants the wedding party to sign.

By the time the villa fills with guests, I’m already exhausted. And the night hasn’t even technically begun.

I stand near the bar, keeping watch on the servers, how the guests are responding to the food, and generally monitoring my headset for questions from any of my staff. A large, dark shape lingers near the entrance to the room.

Eagle.

Always discreet, hovering in the background and keeping an eye on the activities.

I’m just finishing a call from the front desk about a guest who wants to check but didn’t reserve a room when a well-dressed man lightly clears his throat in front of me.

“Lacey.” He leans in to kiss my cheek as if we’re in France and not Florida. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. He is the father-of-the groom—not just the shitty liar who I dumped last year. “You look stunning, as always.”

I compose my face into an expressionless mask, which makes it even harder to give the man I like to call Dirtbag Dad, a fake smile. “Congratulations, Dylan,” I tell him. “I hope you have a wonderful weekend. If you’ll excuse me, I’m working.”I turn to leave, but he stops me with a hand on my elbow.

The look I give that hand should shred every last bit of his cocky confidence. It seems to work as he has the good sense to remove his hand from my skin.

“Lacey, I...” The man I once thought so charming, so handsome stumbles over his words. I notice a little patch of chin he missed shaving. I can’t help but wonder why his wife—the woman he has been married to for thirty-four years, the woman he lied about to me for the entire fourteen months of our relationship—didn’t mention it. Odds are, if he treats her the way he treated me, she’s completely given up on him.

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