揧ou抮e厰 I search for the right insult and come up short. 揑 can抰 believe you.?
揑 warned you, baby.?
揧ou抮e just pissed I hurt your pride.?
Crew doesn抰 respond, but a muscle ticks in his jaw.
揃egging is not happening. I抦 not that desperate. See you on the altar, baby.?The nickname holds no sentimentality, only mocking.
He doesn抰 move. There抯 a long, heavy silence. Weighted down by second guessing and appraisals and regrets. 揂sk me.?
揂sk you what??
揂sk me to kiss you, Scarlett. Isn抰 that what this conversation has been about??
Honestly, I抳e lost track. It抯 become a push and pull梐 battle of wills. Each of us feeling out what we抮e willing to give up. What we won抰 agree to concede on. 揑 don抰 ask for things, either. I take them.?
揝o do I.?
We stare at each other, at a stalemate. I want to kiss him. Badly. I抳e never wanted to erase the distance between my lips and someone else抯 more. He wants to kiss me. Just as badly, if his tense posture is any indication.
Pride keeps me in place. He doesn抰 move either.
揑 need to finish getting ready.?I say it softly. A fact, not a foot out the door. I抦 not backing down. I抦 not giving him an excuse.
Crew releases an exasperated sigh, like some major inconvenience is taking place. I抦 expecting him to turn and leave. Instead, he approaches me with the conviction of a conquering king, diminishing the few feet separating us with a couple of long strides. He cups my face, his fingers brushing my cheeks, as he tilts my head back and forces my gaze to meet his. 揟ell me,?he demands.
I question him with my eyes, tempted to sway into his touch. I抦 losing ground, and I blame his close proximity for encroaching. It抯 hard to think梩o breathe梬hen he抯 touching me.
揟ell me to kiss you, Scarlett.?His thumb traces my bottom lip.
Goosebumps rise on my skin. Shivers race down my spine.
He抯 compromising. Ceding. It prompts a heady rush of power. I didn抰 capitulate梙e did. With anyone else, I抎 perceive it as weakness. But this doesn抰 make me think less of Crew梚t makes me want him more.
揔iss me.?
The e is still hovering in the air between us when he complies. His lips crash against mine, demanding and urgent and commanding. The hands gripping my face are gentle. His mouth is anything but. The wet heat of his tongue invades my mouth, forcing a moan out.
Crew Kensington tastes like whiskey and mint. Sin and seduction. Pleasure and power. And this is exactly why I told him no in the library桰 knew we would be this combustible. I knew if I let him, he抎 burn me. Consume me.
I can respect him.
I can explore my attraction to him.
I just can抰 care about him.
Success isn抰 built on good intentions and consideration of others.
His lips leave mine. Too soon. I want to kiss him until I抦 out of oxygen. I want to relish the way he makes me forget this is fake.
When I open my eyes, he抯 staring straight at me. I have no idea what to say, how to reconcile who we were before and who we are after that kiss. A distinction I didn抰 think I抎 have to make before saying I do. That抯 when before and after were supposed to start. I抦 realizing, as my lips tingle and my pulse pounds, it might have started a long time ago.
I clear my throat. 揧ou should go.?
If he抯 bothered by the immediate dismissal, he doesn抰 show it. Crew nods once, brisk and business-like. His hands fall away from my face, and I immediately miss their warmth. Their possessive presumptuousness. 揝ee you out there.?
I watch him turn and walk away, warring with myself. He gave me an inch. I can do the same. Marriage is about compromise, right?
揅rew.?He pauses when I speak but doesn抰 turn around. My eyes coast over his broad shoulders, stretching the tux jacket tight. Unlike me, he抯 already wearing his wedding attire. I抦 glad he doesn抰 turn around. It makes it easier to spit out, 揟hank you.?
He doesn抰 look back. The door closes behind him a few seconds later, leaving me alone. Surrounded by shoe boxes and cans of hairspray and the products painted on my face, waiting for the hairstylist to appear so I can change into my dress and walk down the aisle.
CHAPTER SIX
CREW
I hear her before I see her. Subtle sounds alert me to Scarlett抯 approach. There抯 the glide of satin and silk and whatever else wedding dresses are constructed from across the marble floor. The whispers of the crowd. The swell of the music before it reaches the crescendo that抯 supposed to signify her arrival at the altar.
According to the one time we practiced this, I抦 not meant to turn until Scarlett has reached the final pew. I抦 happy to comply. I wouldn抰 know how to look. Stoic is my default setting. That抯 not how a groom is meant to look, watching his bride come down the aisle. We抮e supposed to be selling a love story to everyone who is in attendance today. Stock in our families?companies has skyrocketed since our engagement was announced a few weeks ago. Scarlett and I are the faces of the future. The stronger we appear, the better.