“We’re all ready for you.”
Moretti nods.
“Right this way.”
As we follow, Moretti keeps his fingers on me, and I swear sparks are starting to ignite along my spine.
Though I’ve been in one of Randy’s boutiques, this is the flagship store, and the interior envelops us in opulence—crystal chandeliers casting soft prisms over racks of gowns in ivory, champagne, and blush, the air scented with fresh lilies and the faint undertone of silk.
Mirrors line one wall, multiplying the space into infinity, and a raised platform in the center waits like a stage for unwilling performers.
My stomach twists, a knot of reluctance tightening with each step.This isn’t a fairy tale; it’s a prison dressed in silk and lace.
I glance at Moretti.
His profile is sharp and unreadable, and I wonder if he feels any remorse for dragging me here, for turning my life into this farce.
Randy gestures to a seating area near the platform, where a low table holds a silver tray of continental breakfast delights—flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar, fresh berries glistening in crystal bowls, slices of prosciutto and cheese arranged artfully.
A French press steams with rich coffee, its aroma deep and inviting, mingling with the pop of a bottle he uncorks with practiced flair.“I’ve prepared a little something to make this experience even more special.Coffee?Champagne?”
“My bride will have coffee,” Moretti answers for me, dropping his fingers and moving toward the table.
Even though he’s made the exact right choice on my behalf, I scowl at him.After everything that’s happened in the last fourteen or so hours, the only thing I need is caffeine.
Well, and one of those amazing looking croissant sandwiches.
“Black?”Moretti offers, picking up the pot.
He’s offering to be nice?Remembering what happened last time he got me a drink, I wave a hand.“I’ll pour my own.”
His grin is as quick as it devastating.
For a moment, our gazes lock.
Then Randy clears his throat, and I glance away from the man who thinks he’s going to marry me.
“I’ll have a cup,” Moretti tells me.“Black.”
Asshole.
Ignoring him, I pour one for myself and add a splash of cream.
Moretti angles his head to one side, acknowledging my rebellion.
If he wanted a compliant woman, he should have kidnapped someone other than me.
While Moretti fills his own cup, Randy asks what kind of dress I prefer.
Caught off guard, I blink.I honestly have no idea.
Marriage has never been more than a vague concept to me.Unlike many of my friends, I’m not a woman who has dreamed of my wedding day.
When I finally admit that I don’t know where to start, Randy nods smartly, as if he’s heard that response a million times before.And I’m pretty sure he hasn’t.
“We’ll figure that out as we go.I’ve pulled a selection based on Mr.Moretti’s descriptions—elegant, timeless, with a touch of drama.Something to highlight your stunning figure.”
Moretti gave him direction?
