Page 1 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
ONE
KIMBER
No matter how plump, plain, or poor a woman is, the right wedding gown will make her feel more beautiful than any fairy-tale princess.
Right about now, I’m thinking Cinderella can kiss my beautiful ass.
My heart pounding, I step out from behind the dressing room door in an extravagant cloud of silk and lace that took me three months to make, and wait for Jenner’s reaction.
It’s even better than I hoped.
“Winston Churchill’s hairy balls!”
He jolts to his feet from the ugly chintz divan he’s been lounging on while I’ve been getting ready for the ceremony. Sleek as a seal in his perfectly tailored Armani tuxedo, he looks me up and down slowly. “You’re an angel! A vision! A fucking goddess!”
That makes me blush. I take compliments about as comfortably as enemas. “Thank you.”
Pursing his lips, he frowns and folds his arms over his chest. “Would it be very wrong if I got an erection? Things are getting a bit heavy downstairs.”
Delighted, I laugh. “You always were a slut for French lace.”
He waves a hand in the air, imperious as the queen. “Twirl, darling. We need to see this dress in action.”
I pick up the hem of my dress and spin around in a ballerina’s twirl. My veil floats around my shoulders like the finest of halos, spun from pure clouds. When I stop and face Jenner again, he’s pretending to be misty-eyed, covering his mouth with a fist.
“My little girl’s all grown-up.”
I sigh, looking at the ceiling. “Oh my God. You’re one month older than me.”
“I’m being metaphorical!” Hands out, he strides toward me with his elegant gait and takes me in his arms, careful not to wrinkle my dress or smudge my makeup when he kisses my cheeks. “Now, I admit I didn’t always have faith that Brad would marry you—”
“You literally told me, and I quote, ‘That shitstick will never marry you.’”
He groans. “Mary Poppins, you’ve got a memory like an elephant! As I was saying, I didn’t always have faith, but I’m so happy to be proven wrong. For your sake.”
He pulls away and grasps me gently by my shoulders. Because he gets twitchy when things aren’t just so, he tucks a rogue curl that’s escaped from its updo behind my ear. When his voice hardens, his British accent becomes even more clipped. “But if he does a single thing that makes you unhappy, if he so much as makes you frown, I’ll neuter that shitstick with a rusty butter knife.”
Gazing at Jenner’s stern face, I smile. I say softly, “I love you, too.”
“You’re disgustingly sentimental.”
He says that dismissively, but I see how his lower lip quivers. “I’m gonna throw that right back at you when you’re weeping into your hankie as I take my vows, girlfriend.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking, then he starts to fiddle with the edge of my veil. “Any last-minute jitters?”
“No.”
I’ve been waiting for this moment for three years. Since the second I laid eyes on Bradley Hamilton Wingate III, I’ve been madly in love with him. This is the happiest day of my life. The only thing that would make it more perfect is if my father were walking me down the aisle, but since his intense claustrophobia makes a transatlantic flight impossible, my handsome, elegant Jenner will do the job almost as well.
Still thoughtfully toying with my veil, Jenner says, “I’ve got the Jag right outside, you know. We could be in wine country getting massages and ogling the pool boys at Meadowood in under two hours.”
I glare at him. “I know Brad’s not your favorite person, but if you ruin my wedding day by talking shit about my husband, I’ll light your collection of vintage Gucci scarves on fire.”
He quirks his mouth into a wry pucker. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Bridezilla. My lips are henceforth sealed.” He pretends to turn a lock and throw away the key, then pauses. “But I want to be on the record as saying that you could do so much better—”
“Jenner!”
He takes in my clenched jaw and fists, my bulging eyes. “You’re right,” he says softly. “My bad. I just want what’s best for you, that’s all.”
He leaves unspoken all the times I cried on his shoulder after one of my fights with Brad about how emotionally unavailable he was, all the teary phone calls when I agonized over why he wouldn’t commit and get me a ring, all the soul-searching over mimosas about what I might be lacking.
But all that’s over now. We were just going through what we needed to go through to get to our happily ever after, where we were supposed to be all along.
Everything will be different once we’re married.
I’m just about to tell Jenner that when the wedding coordinator bursts into the room in a flurry of flailing hands and breathless gasps, her dark hair frizzing in the August humidity.
“It’s time! It’s time! Is everyone ready?” She sees us, pulls up short, and puts a hand to her throat. “Holy Christmas, you look stunning.”
“Thanks, Miranda.”
When she blinks and says, “Oh, uh—you, too!” I realize she was referring to Jenner.
He chuckles when he sees the sour look on my face. “Don
’t worry, darling, I’ll slouch and pout as we go down the aisle so you’ll look even more glorious in comparison.”
I say drily, “Yeah, except slouching and pouting make you look prettier, not worse. I can’t believe I was dumb enough to ask a model to be my maid of honor. I rue the day I met you.”
“You’re lucky you met me. If I hadn’t pretended to be your boyfriend to save you from that Neanderthal slobbering all over you in the shoe department at Neiman’s ten years ago, you might still be there, trying to politely avoid his big, hairy hands.”
“Be quiet and give me the damn bouquet.”
He plucks it from a vase on the table beneath the window, his lip curled as he inspects it. “Calla lilies? Good God. They’re a funeral flower.”
I warn, “If you say anything even remotely close to How apropos, I’ll gut you like a fish.”
He regards me with cool disdain, which is the British version of affection. “Ah, more threats of violence. On the wedding day, no less. How very Don Corleone of you. Must be that Italian blood of yours.”
“You’re damn straight. Now let’s go make that aisle our bitch.” I turn back to the dressing room and holler, “Girls!”
Out come Brad’s sister, Ginny—a Grace Kelly look-alike—and my girlfriend since high school, Danielle, who flew out from Ohio for the wedding. Both are gorgeous in bespoke champagne chiffon gowns, though Danielle’s boobs are trying their hardest to escape from the bodice.
