Page 66 of Wicked Serve

“Maybe I like being reckless with you.”

He presses his cold lips to mine.

I know that Nik’s family is wealthy—I spent the summer working out of his mother’s outrageous apartment on the Upper East Side—but somehow, I never quite registered the level until tonight. College has a way of leveling the playing field; I’ve snuck into his dorm all semester. He could’ve bought anyone out of their housing, and yet he chose to keep a low profile.

Maybe it’s the hockey player in him. He’s no stranger to sacrificing comfort for an end goal. Or maybe it has something to do with his parents’ divorce. I saw the depth of emotion in his eyes, that night with my parents. Hints at secrets I don’t know if I’ll ever learn about from his lips.

The rose gold diamond necklace I’m wearing is utterly gorgeous. I don’t even want to think of the price. I doubt he just had it, like the stole, which means he bought it for me. All to give me a better birthday.

Is a necklace just a necklace to a guy who has more money than he knows what to do with?

I wind my arms around his neck, biting his lip. His grip on me tightens as he lets out a startled moan. Tantalizing warmth pools in my belly. The freezing air bites through everything but the fur, but I can’t stop kissing him.

Faintly, I hear music. Instrumental, delicate, like so many of the songs I listened to during my internship.

“Do you hear that?”

“Must be a wedding.”

“In the hotel?” I glance at the entrance. “Our hotel?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Feel like dancing?”

At my grin, he leads me to the hotel entrance, his expression growing haughty. “An hour and a half late. Utterly ridiculous.” He inclines his head to the doorman. “You’d think she actually liked her cousin, the amount of time she spent getting ready.”

I force myself to scowl, not laugh. “You’re the one who got the time wrong. And you changed your suit three times.”

“And you gave the driver the wrong address,” he says, raising his voice so reception hears it. “We drove around half the city for an hour like fools.”

“If you were so certain I was wrong, why didn’t you correct me sooner?” I give him a sweet smile when his mouth shuts. “Precisely.”

“The reception is down the hall, sir,” the woman behind the front desk says.

“Thank you,” he replies, sounding so perfectly exasperated, I nearly lose it and ruin the whole thing. He looks extra hot when he scowls, even if it’s pretend. “Finally, someone who listens to me.”

He throws me a wink.

“It must be so difficult to be you, darling,” I say dryly.

At the entrance to the ballroom, a young woman wearing a headset, with a clipboard tucked underneath her arm—something so familiar I miss it, deeply, for a moment—smiles at us. “Welcome. What’s the name?”

She’s busy staring at Nik, so I peek at the clipboard.

“Alan and Yvette Bancroft.” Yvette sounds like the kind of woman who would wear furs. “Well, won’t it be soon, honey? When you finally get the balls to propose, I mean.”

The woman’s lip twitches.

“Stacy will kill us if we miss another moment,” I add, sliding my arm through Nik’s and tugging him into the room before the woman can protest.

As I take in the ballroom, decorated from ceiling to floor in shades of white and icy blue, I sigh audibly. Summer might be wedding season, but a winter wedding? When it’s done well, there’s nothing better.

“Were you so easily swayed by handsome wedding crashers during your internship?” Nik teases.

“Absolutely not,” I say, plucking two glasses of champagne from a passing server. “I was a professional.”

“And your professional opinion of this?”

I turn in a circle, hungrily taking in every high-end detail. Delicate, shimmery decorations combine with the breathtaking chandelier above to give the illusion of stars sparkling on a clear winter night. They must be in between dinner service and dessert, because most of the guests are on the dance floor, moving in elegant circles to the string quartet. They somehow managed to make the balloon arch behind the musicians look classy—no easy feat, Katherine rarely signed off on balloons—and the white orchid centerpieces? I want the florist’s contact information. I’d love to have been the one to pull off a reception this impressive.

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