Page 284 of The Billionaires

Aren’t librarians supposed to dress all boring? Because mine does not.

My new project doesn’t help. In order to better understand the historical romance genre, I’ve purchased a bunch of books that Jane likes and have been binge-reading them. Turns out, these books are chockfull of sexy scenes, most of which feature a virginal heroine.

Yes. That’s right.

I refused to partake in a GD, and now I’m reading all about them—an activity that has a similar effect on me as reading cookbooks would on a starving man.

CHAPTER 29

JANE

Hell is sometimes depicted as a place where your desires go unfulfilled. For example, gluttons are surrounded by delicious food that they can’t eat, or drunkards are swimming in liquor they can’t consume. Now, I’m not a sex addict, far from it, but the weeks before the wedding make me feel like one… in my particular version of hell.

Apparently, working out isn’t the only thing Adrian does shirtless. He doesn’t wear a shirt when he goes to the fridge at night, or when he sunbathes on his rooftop deck, or when he plays in the ball pit with Leo. And let’s not forget his shirtless skin-to-skin with Piper, of course.

That last one is why I’m beginning to forget the sting of his rejection. The more time I spend with the baby, the more I fall for her, and that makes me think that Adrian was right to say no to my GD proposal.

This whole marriage is for Piper’s sake, and I almost messed it up, even with him saying no.

As we get closer to the wedding, I don’t even have time to think about my GD. When I’m not working, most of my time is spent choosing a dress and liaising with the wedding planner (who seems to defer to the opinion of the bride on pretty much everything).

Before I know it, the wedding day arrives. As I get my hair, nails, and makeup professionally done, butterflies come to life in my stomach, and by the time I’m putting on my wedding dress, I have a major case of the jitters… as though I were a real bride.

Which I’m not.

I have to keep reminding myself of that as I put in my contacts—something I only do on special occasions.

I’m so busy doing that I don’t even notice when Mom, Mary, and Grandma join me in the fitting room. I only realize they’re there when all three of them start sobbing.

“Who died?” I demand.

“You just look so beautiful,” Mary says, sniffling. “Like a princess.”

“You’re not my little baby anymore,” Mom mutters over a hiccup.

“And I’m a social crier,” Grandma says, blowing her nose. “Always have been.”

“Can I go?” I ask Mrs. Dubois and the rest of the glam-me-up team.

Mrs. Dubois looks me over with her super-critical eye and nods, albeit grudgingly. “I still wish I had six months,” she says, her French accent in full force. “But given the current constraints, you look decent enough.”

Mary huffs. “Especially if by ‘decent,’ you mean ‘Disney princess-like.’”

“Or ‘queen-like,’” Mom adds.

I resist the urge to point out that it was, in fact, Queen Victoria who put the now-familiar white dress on the map for the countless brides who followed her.

The door opens and the event organizer rushes in, looking panicked—though that seems to be her default state of being. “The limo is here,” she rattles out. “We need the bride at the church. Stat.”

“Fucking amateurs,” Mrs. Dubois mutters under her breath. Noticing my grandma’s chastising glare, she adds, “Pardon my French.”

I let myself be herded into the limo, and when the car is en route, Mom asks, “Why St. George's Church? I don’t think it’s the biggest or most architecturally significant.”

I grin. “If today’s wedding had a theme, it would be ‘historical romance.’”

“I still don’t get it,” Mom says.

I roll my eyes. “If you’d read the books I’ve been recommending, you’d notice that all the fashionable weddings of the ton took place at St. George's.”

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