Page 53 of No Strings Attached
The house isstunning.
The suspended greenery over the dance floor glimmers with soft fairy lights, the glassware sparkles like it was kissed by winter itself, and the coastal breeze sweeping through the terrace gives everything an ethereal edge. It’s elegant. Romantic. Warm.
It’s everything I wanted it to be.
The caterers are prepping in the back. The florals are picture-perfect. The string quartet has started their soundcheck. I even catch a glimpse of the champagne tower—flawless.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe.
We did it.
I head back to the cottage to get ready.
The air outside bites, but it feels good on my flushed skin. The walk gives me a moment to come down from the high ofthe day, snow crunching underfoot, my boots tracing the familiar path back through the trees.
A warm shower washes away the last few hours of stress, and by the time I step out, steam curls in the air like fog, and my body feels brand new.
By five-thirty, I’m slipping into a floor-length navy gown with a deep V and an open back.
I curl my hair, pin part of it back, add a soft shimmer to my eyes, and swipe on my boldest deep rose lipstick.
Simple gold earrings. Nude heels.
One last glance in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize myself.
Not because of the makeup or the dress—but because I look…happy.
There’s this quiet kind of calm under my skin, even with all the nerves buzzing. And I know it’s because of him. Because of Henson.
No matter how often I remind myself that this can’t be real—that it’s too much too soon—I find myself falling anyway.
And I don’t want to stop.
There’s a knock at the door. I pause, hands hovering over my perfume bottle, heart immediately leaping into my throat.
I grab my clutch, smooth my hands down the front of my dress, and try to ignore how fast my heart is beating. Then I walk to the door and open it.
Henson stands on the other side of the threshold, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tux with a crisp white shirt, no tie, and the top two buttons undone, like he didn’t want to commit too much. His hair is effortlessly swept back, and his jaw looks extra sharp in the porch light.
His lips part, and for a full five seconds, he just stares.
“Wow. You’re… shit.”
“I’m… shit?” I laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Speechless, Billionaire baby?”
He blinks once, slow. “You look unreal, Mira. Something out of a dream.”
Heat blooms up my neck. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” Henson murmurs, stepping forward. “It’syouin the dress.”
His hand lifts slowly to tuck a curl behind my ear, fingers brushing my cheek. Then he gives me a searing kiss, and I feel the breath leave my lungs.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
We walk side by side along the path toward the house, the sky above us painted in dusky lavender and navy.
