Page 12 of Resisting the Billionaire

I stretch out as best as I can, the cramped space not leaving much room for my legs. It doesn’t help that I pushed myself a little too far at the gym this morning. “So why a florist shop in the meantime?”

She eyes me, as if she can’t tell if she can trust me or not. I admit, it’d totally be Dad’s style to send a spy here to see how she really operates. After all, this wedding will likely cost him a pretty penny based on the guest list alone.

“I don’t talk to my father if I can help it,” I confess after a moment of silence. “You saw what he’s like.” She nods again, the barest flicker of sympathy in her eyes, and I continue, “Anything you tell me won’t get back to him. And I have no say in any of this. I’m not really the one who’s your client.”

She straightens her laptop in front of her, aligning it with the edge of the desk, and blows out a breath. “I struck out on my own last year after learning the ropes from Denise. And as you said, rent in this city… I thought apartments were bad, but office space? Forget it.” She shrugs her shoulders in a helpless way that sends a pang through me. “I couldn’t lie to myself anymore… or my credit cards. I had to give up my office. Diana’s business was struggling too, so I lease space from her now for a fraction of the cost of what I paid before. Our businesses pair well together and we can send clients each other’s way. It’s a win-win.”

I nod, everything she’s saying making sense. “You seriously need more room in here, though. My legs are dying.” I try to cross them at the knee, but only manage to nearly topple myself over. “At least get a new desk. This thing is too big in here.”

Her lips twist, running a hand over the dark wood. “It’s the only one I have. And it worked nicely before.”

“Well, this is now.”

“I’ll work on it,” she mumbles, glancing away. Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to make her feel ashamed.

A knock on the door has me turning around, spotting Serena’s pale face, unenthused to be here. Spare me already.

“I wasn’t sure I had the right place at first,” she murmurs hesitantly, taking the seat directly next to me.

“This is where the magic happens,” Mackenzie says brightly, spreading her arms out. “And we’ve got a lot to decide on today, so now that you’re both here, we can get to it.” She opens a notebook in front of her, some kind of checklist on the first page. “Did either of you get a chance to go through the consultation list I included in your folders?”

She eyes us knowingly, and Serena shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t even take the damn folder with her.

But contrary to everyone’s expectations of me, I plan on keeping everybody on their toes with this wedding. I pull the form out of my breast pocket, smoothing it out before handing it to her. “Here you go.”

Her eyes widen, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her spreading across her face. “Gabriel, this is wonderful,” she says as she flips it over to scan the back too. “I’m very impressed.”

My cheeks heat, pleased with her praise, which seems to delight her further as she glances up at me, but she lets me keep my dignity.

“This gives us a great starting point and we’ll make sure everything is to your taste too, Serena. What kind of color scheme are you thinking of?”

There’s dead silence in the room as my new fiancee simply stares back at her, unable to form a response. It’s a freaking color. She’s not exactly putting her on the spot.

I glance down at my shirt. “How about blue?” I suggest. One color’s as good as the rest.

“Great!” Mackenzie chirps cheerfully, looking relieved. “Serena, how do you feel about blue?”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs. “Maybe silver too? I attended a benefit last month that had a lot of silver and it was beautiful.”

“Blue and silver. Perfect.” Mackenzie writes it down in the notebook in front of her.

She turns to the next page, starting in about caterers and live music and dress fittings, her professionalism giving way to enthusiasm as she continues on. Serena contributes little to the conversation, withdrawing more and more with each new topic, but I find myself getting caught up in it, debating with her about whether a Chiavari or Louis XVI style chair would look better, if the tablecloths should be cotton or satin.

Mackenzie has an opinion about everything and reasoning to back it up. This fabric wrinkles too easily, that kind of music won’t set the right tone for the guests, these types of decor will harmonize together. Planning this all is actually sort of… fun. Her eyes sparkle as she gushes about a wedding she worked on years ago where they transformed the inside ceremony space into a garden, those pink lips curling up as she recounts the thousands of flowers they brought in, her voice full of excitement recalling the beauty and grandeur of how it turned out.

I mentally shake my head, realizing how wrapped up I’ve become in watching her. I should be focusing on Serena, my… bride.

I swallow down the bile that rises, glancing over at the waft of a woman next to me, so washed out it’s almost like she’s translucent with her pale skin, white-blonde hair, and cream colored dress. If I squint hard, I’m pretty sure I can see through her to the table and chairs against the windows.

No, my eye shouldn’t be wandering anywhere else.

Despite how much it wants to.

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