Page 8 of Beautiful Revenge
I’ve also been schooled on how to properly brew a fucking cup of coffee, and let me tell you, it tastes the same as the cup of joe I’ve been making myself ever since I was at uni.
Harlow’s dress drapes so far down her back, it rests right above her arse.
That arse.
The only thing that could divert my attention from it is the fact she kicks her heels to the side at the same time she pulls at her long gloves, one finger at a time.
What in the bloody hell is she doing?
I’m not familiar with brides, but this can’t be good.
I step through the entry, shut the door behind me, and move to the main living space that mirrors mine next door to state the obvious. “Everyone is waiting.”
She doesn’t turn back to me, and her tone is clipped and efficient. “I know.”
She almost sounds pleased with herself. One assumes billionaires might be self-indulgent wankers, but this is not what I expected from Harlow Madison.
“We should go. Everyone—” I motion to the windows. “And I meaneveryoneis waiting for you.”
She continues to speak as if she’s speaking about a normal weather day. “They’ll get over it eventually.”
Get over it?
Maybe this is normal. What do I know? I’ve never been a bride’s assistant before.
It’s all I can do to steady my tone. “Are you okay?”
She drops the gloves to the floor and turns on bare feet with gleaming, pale pink polished toenails before she leans her fine arse against the edge of the dining table. She hesitates and bites her perfect, plump lip.
Fuck.
As good as that action looks on her, right now it’s really fucking bad.
“Harlow.” I lower my voice and pretend I know how to handle a bride with cold feet. “I’m sure walking down the aisle in front of all those people has to be nerve-wracking?—”
“Nerve-wracking?” she interrupts and gives me a lazy roll of her dark eyes. “This is nothing. Janie has trained me for times like this from the moment my dad invited her into our lives. I’m used to being thrust into the public eye. I know what’s expected of me and can deliver. This might be my first wedding, but it’s certainly not my first rodeo.”
Impressive. What I did not learn about Harlow Madison from my research is that she’s got grit.
I hike a brow. “Rodeo. Not what I expected, but quite American of you.”
That wins me another eye roll.
Now that I know she won’t break into a pool of dramatic tears, I get to it. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it. I’ll move mountains to get you to put those shoes and gloves back on so I can deliver you to your groom.”
She moves, but not for her gloves.
She turns back to the dining table and picks up a folded piece of paper the color of natural linen. I know that for a fact, since it’s the official stationery of The Manor at Winslet. I selected it myself. It’s one of the ten million ridiculous choices I had to make while bringing this place back to life.
She walks on bare feet and stops so close to me, a hint of floral hits my senses. It’s faint and natural, like the scent of a spring day when the breeze is light and perfect off the lake. She presents me with the folded stationery. “I need a favor, Devon.”
I take it, hold it up between us, and frown down at the woman who stands at least eight inches shorter than me without her spiked heels. “What’s this?”
“Please deliver that to Albert.”
Bloody hell.I am not cut out for this kind of drama. Both my brows rise in unison this time. “I’m supposed to deliveryouto Albert.”
Her expression isn’t apologetic in the least. “That’s not happening today.”
