Page 115 of Rebel Hawke

Atlas pushes my hair behind my ear. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay meeting the girls tomorrow?”

I nod. “I’ll be fine. I can deal with the nausea.”

He slides his hand between us and spreads his palm across my stomach again. “I’ll keep asking the baby to be nicer to his mom.”

“His? What if it’s a girl?”

Atlas’ face goes very pale, as if I’ve suggested something that never even crossed his mind. He swallows thickly again. “Then I’m in serious fucking trouble.”

ATLAS

I tugat the collar of the ugly-as-hell tux and scowl at my reflection in the long mirror in front of me, making eye contact with the guys scattered in the room behind me through it. “Can someone please remind me again why we can’t just all wear ourownexistingtuxes for this shindig?”

Cass walks up behind me and slaps me on the shoulder, squeezing it in a way that would have been excruciating a few months ago. “Because your cousin wants us inthese.”

He makes a flourished sweeping gesture down my body, and I catch Isaac’s smirk in the mirror.

Making a mock gagging sound, I glance behind me at the long tails on the coat that go to my knees. “But these are legitpenguin suits. We’d look much better in our modern tuxes than these horrendous things.”

Kennedy’s soon-to-be husband smirks and goes to take a seat on the low red leather couch along the wall of the private dressing room area reserved for us to do our final fitting for the wedding. “If you have the balls to tell Kennedy that”—he raises his glass of scotch to me—“you go right ahead. Be my guest.”

Pope snorts as he shrugs on his jacket and starts buttoning it. “I don’t think we should be encouraging Atlas to risk his life this close to the fight date.”

I scowl at him and flip him the bird. “Fuck off, Dr. Clarke.”

He grins at me and nudges me off the small dais so he can examine himself in the mirror. Turning side to side, he adjusts his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I think these look good. Dashing. Very old-fashioned New Orleans.”

Cass points at him. “Precisely. Exactly what Kennedy wants. Old elegance.”

Isaac snorts, crossing his ankle over one knee, where he sits on the opposite side of the room from the groom. “Then why is she getting married at a brand-new hotel?”

Exactly.

I almost interject my agreement and object, once again, to the awful attire Kennedy is insisting we wear, but Cass holds up a hand.

He tosses me a “shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you” look. “She and I have spent pretty much all our time working on that place for well over a year, and we’re touting it as a premiere wedding and reception space in the city, so do you really think she would have gotten married anywhere else?”

Isaac’s brow furrows as he considers the question for a moment. “Good point.”

It is.

And as much as I hate these damn tuxes and that I have to spend my time here getting them fitted properly instead of with Wren, I can see why she’s so insistent on this.

Kennedy loves The Hawke Hotel, and she has good reason to want to share her big day in the space that she almost single-handedly ensured would get built.

She’s poured her heart and soul into it, working with Aunt Storm and Uncle Landon on the construction and guiding the interior design almost solely. Because while Savage and Dad might like to think they’re the ones in control at Hawke Enterprises, everyone else knows who is really running things these days—especially where the hotel is concerned.

And it’s the blonde in sky-high stilettoes who walks all over them to get what she wants.

Like Wren at the dress fitting today, even when I know she isn’t feeling well.

After watching her spend half an hour with her head in the toilet this morning after she woke and seeing the green color her skin appeared even after she insisted she was feeling better, it was nearly impossible for me to leave her.

Until she practically forced me out the door.

For the hundredth time since I got here, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check for any messages from her or one of the other girls indicating she might need me.

Nothing.

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