Page 47 of If You Claim Me
In the middle of it all is Mildred, wearing a stunning dark purple gown, her hair and makeup done, looking the picture of sophisticated elegance. I wish I could appreciate it more, but I thought I’d have a moment to myself before I had to deal with more than Mildred and Meems.
Practice wasn’t the worst, but the whole team is off-kilter. It’s Ryker’s first season in net, and Romero is new on defense, and it’s his first year in the pros. My engagement to Mildred is another layer of tension. We all need to find our sea legs.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
“Oh, you’re home!” Meems’s wide smile makes it difficult toremain irritated about the fucking invasion of what’s supposed to bemyliving room.
“I’m home.” I bend to kiss her cheek.
“I arranged an engagement photoshoot for you! Isn’t Dred beautiful? Your suit is steamed and ready in your room. Go put it on, and we can get started.”
“Mildred is always stunning.” I cross my arms. “We took photos at the engagement party. Why do we need more?”
“Because I would like official pictures. Go get changed.”
Arguing is pointless. Besides, clearly she’s excited, and that’s the entire point of this whole charade. Plus, Mildred is already cooperating.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in a black suit with piping that matches Mildred’s dress.
When I return, Meems is beaming like a fucking spotlight.
I approach my fiancée, and she gives me a slow once-over. I can’t decide if it’s for Meems and the photographer’s benefit, or because she actually appreciates how I look. I do the same. Fake ogle, real ogle, she doesn’t know the difference.
The dress, while modest, draws attention to her luscious curves. Makeup hides the circles from the nightmares. Every night so far, she’s woken up screaming. I’ve been sleeping with my door open so I can get to her sooner. I’ve also been sleeping in a T-shirt. Each time she clings to me, and I hold her until she stops shaking. I don’t want the bad dreams to continue, but I also want a reason to touch her, and now I have a nicer one.
“Let’s start in front of the fireplace,” the photographer instructs.
Mildred and I move into position.
“Sorry about this,” I mutter, unsure where to put my hands. It’s easier when she’s the one hanging on to me.
“I don’t mind. Lucy is over the moon,” she whispers.
“A little closer, you two. Act like you like each other,” the photographer jokes.
We close the space between us. All her softness and warmth press against me.
One of the assistants steps in to position us, adjusting my hand so it curves around the dip in her waist. Mildred’s hand slides up my back and rests between my shoulder blades.
“Beautiful. Hold that pose.” She snaps several photos.
Each position requires more contact than the last. This is apparently fine with me when Mildred is having a nightmare and needs me to calm her, but here, in front of these people…I don’t know. It’s different. I’m constantly told to relax my shoulders.
This is an excessive amount of closeness. I don’t think I’ve touched anyone for this long in my entire life. At least not on purpose. I’m hyperaware of Mildred’s curves and how good she feels tucked against me like this.
“Okay, let’s move to the staircase.”
I help Mildred to the stairs and hold her hand as she navigates them in heels.
“Oh, this is perfect. Dred, can you move up one step so you don’t have to tip your head back quite as far?”
She moves up a step and still has to look up, but we’re closer to eye level now.
“Excellent! Now look into each other’s eyes,” the photographer instructs.
Mildred turns toward me, and the entire front of her body presses against mine. She settles one palm on my chest. With the other, she moves my hand to her hip.
“Tap into your inner competitor and pretend it’s a staring contest,” Mildred whispers, maybe trying to alleviate some of the obvious tension.
