Page 27 of Princess of Pride
My phone chimes from the hidden pocket of the dress. Mom would kill me if she knew I had my phone on me. I take it out.
Mr. Assford: Meet me in the next room.
My heart flutters for no other reason than pure relief. Not because he’s here and wants to see me. Not because for dumb reasons I want him to be wowed by my appearance in this dress, which is the most asinine thought to have when I’m marrying a gay man.
Me:You’re not supposed to see me until I walk down the aisle.
Mr. Assford:Fine. I’ll come to you.
My pulse spikes, and I type quickly.
Me: NO. I’m coming.
I don’t want an audience.
“I’ll be right back.” My big skirt swishes with my steps as I walk from the room.
“Where are you going?” Pippa barks.
“Bathroom.” I bug my eyes. “Do I need permission for that too?”
She makes a face, and I realize the Pippa who needed me and who I bonded with when she worried she might lose her baby while Hunt paraded his mistress around like Henry the VIII was a fluke—a hormonal fluctuation that temporarily made her nice and less entitled.
Fortunately, the en suite bathroom is a Jack and Jill that connects with the next bedroom. I lock myself inside and slip into the adjoining room.
Lachlan stands near the window, staring out at the guests seated in the white slip covered chairs. They face a dramatic arch covered in peonies with lace weaved throughout. It’sbeautiful with the thick woods in the backdrop and hydrangeas in pink, purple, and blue bordering the trees.
The view isn’t half as splendid as the one before me though. Lachlan’s tall form and fitted black tux showcase his broad shoulders and lean waist.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” I say instead of hello.
He turns and the sun catches his aqua eyes, making them glow. His chocolate hair is styled in that tidy, disheveled way, highlighting his chiseled features. Damn. Lachlan in a tux is downright sinful.
His gaze doesn’t meet mine but rather slides over my gown, slowly taking in every inch of me. After a moment or two of lingering on my breasts, he wipes his mouth then those aqua eyes lift to my face, hair, and tiara.
“Stunning,” he murmurs.
Is that reverence I detect in his voice? If it is, none of it reflects in his eyes. In fact, they haven’t locked on mine once.
“Your mother wants pictures. I told her they’ll have to wait until after the ceremony. I want this over with as much as you do, I’m sure.”
I nod, part in shock at his dismissal of the grand event—the only wedding day I’ll ever have—and part in agreement. The sooner this ends, the sooner the disappointment of the day will be over, and I can move on with my life.
“We should have fake-eloped,” I state with a frown.
His eyes connect with mine. Finally. “I don’t think that was an option.”
“Not with my mother.”
He stalks toward me. “Don’t move.”
How did he know I was about to do just that? I force myself to stay in place.
He stops about a foot away and peers down at my face. “Lift your chin.”
“What?” I ask confused as his rainstorm oaky scent engulfs me in a sensual way I try to ignore.
“Lift. Your. Chin.”
