“This is Aurora. My bride.” Alexei’s tone mimics frosted steel. “She’s your customer today. Whatever she wants, she gets.”
The woman’s smile freezes. “Of course. She’s positively radiant.” Her overly bright tone says otherwise. “Now that you’re both here, we can lock up. You’re the last ones to arrive.”
As I follow her, Alexei blocks the entrance, a sentinel in a tailored charcoal gray suit that I’m not ashamed to admit does funny things to my libido. He looks every bit as good in dressier attire as he does jeans and a t-shirt.
He conducts continuous, hypervigilant scans of the space. Door, windows, shadows between racks of white dresses. Considering how some of our other trips into town went, I’m not complaining.
Until I reach the back and find all the people waiting.
A wave of perfume and silk engulfs me. Bodies press close. Women hugging and touching me as voices overlap in a tidal wave of Russian-accented excitement. Kids dart between dress racks, playing hide-and-seek.
My gaze lands on a woman with kind brown eyes and short stylish brown hair. Judging by her regal bearing and the way everyone defers to her, she must be Alexei’s stepmother.
“Aurora!” The woman floats forward and grasps my hands. “We’ve waited so long for you! I’m Irina, and I’m so happy to meet the woman who’s managed to claim my wonderful stepson.”
Everything about her screams “class.”
Irina’s warmth appears genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she squeezes my fingers. She introduces the group of people around her. Alexei’s cousin, Sasha Pisarev, is a man in his late twenties with shaggy brown hair and a ready smile. Trevor, the guy I met at Alexei’s, nods without speaking. Vitaly, Irina’s son and Alexei’s half-brother, offers me a stiff smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes.
She introduces a young woman with Alexei’s jawline but softer features as Valeria, his half-sister.
The handsome man who saunters up to join Irina must be Alexei’s father. He shares Alexei’s dark eyes and the same brooding presence, though his wavy dark brown hair is streaked with gray. Much like his son, he exudes quiet, restrained power.
“Hello, Aurora. I’m Mikhail, Alexei’s father.” He bends around Irina to kiss me on each cheek. “I’m so glad my son is finally settling down. He needs a firm hand to keep him from acting impulsively.”
“Mikhail, don’t scare the girl. Ignore him.” After pinning her husband with a faux glare, Irina winks at me. “However, if you do want some hints on how to deal with your future husband, feel free to reach out. Valeria’s always been good at keeping her brothers in line. Say the word, and I’ll send her right over.”
I try my best not to snicker. If they expect me to control Alexei, we’re all screwed.
The room swirls with life and color and noise. So much noise. Children laughing, women chattering in English and Russian. Even many of the men are chuckling while sipping tumblers full of what must be vodka. After the sterile silence of Alexi’s loft, the crowd is overwhelming and intoxicating.
I push past my trepidation and manage a real smile.
“Champagne!” Irina claps, and a staff member appears with a tray of flutes.
I accept one, sipping the effervescent liquid as I’m guided toward a raised, mirror-surrounded platform. The bubbles taste overly sweet on my tongue. Or maybe that’s a symptom of feeling a little overwhelmed by all these strangers, their competing perfumes and colognes, and the millions of dollars’ worth of wedding attire around us.
Every woman here, and most of the men, are dressed like they’re waiting for their turn on the red carpet.
And I’m supposed to try on wedding gowns in front of these people?
Irina and Valeria flutter around me, pulling dresses from racks and holding them up for inspection. They swamp me in a dizzying parade of white—creamy ivory, stark white, eggshell, pearl, alabaster—in every possible style and fabric.
“This one.” Irina displays a monstrosity of ruffles and tulle. “It’s traditional. Perfect for a Kozlov bride.”
Itresembles a skinned cotton candy machine that someone dyed white. My smile falters as she presses the dress against me, cooing at how beautiful I’ll look.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Irina squeezes my hand again. “We’re so glad he found you. We worried about Alexei after…MJ.”
Her whisper attempts to suck the oxygen from the room like air from a punctured balloon. She freezes, and her eyes dart to the men by the door.
Now’s my chance. “Who’s MJ?”
People keep mentioning this name, but I have no idea who he is.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Irina’s face falls before her features settle into an Alexei-like mask. “We don’t talk about MJ.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from blurting that she’s the one who brought up the name.
