"Fine, but I think I should change clothes first."
“Need some help getting undressed?” His mouth curves in a sexy smirk he knows I can’t resist.
“Out.” I point in the direction of the reception area, fixing him with my firmest look. "You've already broken enough rules for one day. Go wait for me in the lobby."
"You're giving me orders?"
"Yes, I am."
His eyes darken. He leans close, his breath warm against my ear: "Don't keep me waiting long. You know I'm not a patient man. At least not when it comes to you."
I smile, finding it impossible to be annoyed with him.
“Ladies,” he says, nodding to Serena, Tasha, and the others, then disappears toward the lobby.
“I should get going too,” Tasha says, checking her watch. “We’ve got a large private party coming into Vendange at one. I need to make sure everything’s ready for them.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks for everything, Tasha.”
She blows me a kiss, then gathers her purse and jacket and heads out.
Serena’s team descends on me, unpinning the veil with careful hands. Yuki works in focused silence, protecting my hair, protecting the delicate fabric. I slip back into my jeans and cream silk blouse, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders.
When I emerge into the lobby, Nick is leaning against the wall near the windows, scrolling through his phone. The moment Iappear he pockets the device, walking forward to meet me. His hand slides to the small of my back. "Ready?"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Cipriani." His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine. "I made a reservation."
Cipriani Downtown. White tablecloths, impeccable service, one of our favorite spots when we want good food without the fuss of being seen somewhere trendier. The thought of sitting across from him, sharing a quiet meal together, loosens some of the tension in my chest.
"That sounds perfect."
We step through the front door onto the sidewalk, and I lift my face to the sun. The late September air is warm, the usual Manhattan foot traffic flowing past, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
But something prickles with unease at the edge of my awareness. A wall of photographers materializes like they'd been hiding in plain sight. Watching. Waiting.
My stomach tightens before my mind catches up.
The flashes erupt. Shouts overlap, aggressive and invasive voices crashing over me.
"Avery! Over here!"
"Nick! How does it feel marrying a woman whose mother's a convicted killer?"
"Did you pay for your mother-in-law’s parole, Nick?"
"Avery, what do you say to people who accuse you of being a gold-digger?"
"Any comment on your stepfather, Avery? Do you think he got what he deserved?"
I freeze. My feet just stop moving, my legs refusing to function. All the breath in my lungs seizes up as the ugly questions bombard us.
One of the men thrusts a camera toward my face. Nick's hand shoots out, knocking the paparazzo’s arm aside before it can touch me. “Back off! All of you, back the fuck off. Now.”
He doesn't wait for them to comply. His arm bands around my waist, hauling me against him, his body a shield between me and the cameras as he propels me toward his BMW parked at the curb. He wrenches open the passenger door and I slide in, my hands shaking so badly I can barely find the seatbelt.
Nick rounds the hood in three strides, drops into the driver's seat, and pulls the door shut.
