I let my gaze travel over Laura’s carefully chosen outfit. Her dress is actually nice. Lacy, formfitting and long, it’s perfect for a made-for-TV moment. I expected a more daring number, revealing a great deal more flesh. But the producers must’ve persuaded her to keep it on the right side of gaudy.
The closer she draws, the more something feels off about her. She does look very much like the woman in the file. The same face. The same curvy, well-proportioned frame and long, glossy hair. But there’s a side to her that the photos had failed to capture.
Could it be the hesitation in her step? The quivering hand? The downcast eyes? She won’t look at me as if she’s scared she’ll hate what she sees.
Hmm, I thought she’d be ballsy…
I’d assumeher nerves got the better of her spunk, only there’s more weirdness.Her full breasts are hot without being lurid. While they do fight gravity, they don’t deny its existence. I detect none of that vulgar watermelon-like hardness that characterizes cheap implants.
Maybe she was able to afford expensive ones.
Sure, it’s possible. But what’s probable is that I’m looking at a pair of naturally magnificent breasts.
The other inconsistency with Laura’s file is something about her round-cheeked, heart-shaped face. I zero in on her mouth. In the photos, she wore a garish red lipstick, plastered over the contours of her lips. Today, she’s just applied some pink gloss, revealing a Cupid’s bow of an upper lip that’s thinner than the lower.
Where’s the inflated Instagrammable mouth I expected to see?
I glance back at Henri and Gigi. They’re watching Laura, too. Gigi whispers something in his ear, and he nods.
As Laura reaches the altar, her gaze lands on me for a fraction of a second, and then she looks away.
Does she like my flashy tux?My bad-boy stubble? The ear piercings?
Her father lets go of her hand and steps back. Unlike Laura, he doesn’t shy away from staring at me. Mixed emotions flash across his face. He clearly hates my style, but he doesn’t seem entirely displeased with my height and shape. Or my face.
I know that Laura recently dated a musician whom her parents disapproved of. He was twenty-five, three years younger than Laura. I have nine years on him, and six on her. Papa Yang must be pleased at least about that.
“Laura,” Isabelle’s voice, overly cheerful, interrupts my thoughts. “Meet for the very first time Antoine, the match we found for you.”
Laura looks up at me, her expression inquisitive. Her eyes flick to the piercing in my ear, then to my yellow tuxedo. Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile.
“Antoine,” Isabelle says. “Meet for the very first time, Laura, the bride you’ve been looking for.”
I peer at her, increasingly suspicious she might not be quite what MESS had prepped me for.
So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to hold back the salacious jokes I learned for her benefit. If I want her to like me and help me find the seventh key, my best strategy for the next few days is to do more listening than talking.
CHAPTER SIX
LAURA
Isabelle’s voice is a constant buzz in the background, full of such unnatural enthusiasm, she comes across as slightly deranged.
“And now,” she coos, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for! The moment of truth! Will our bride and groom say yes to Love? Do they want a lifetime together?”
A lifetime?
My palms are sweating. My chest feels tight, and it has nothing to do with the corset under my wedding gown.
What have I done? What was I thinking?
The answer is, I wasn’t. I was mad at Mom, Dad, Aunt Mei and Mike. And now I’m about to make a life-changing decision in front of dozens of cameras, the production team, and cheering strangers. The pressure to ignore the voice of reason and deliver the entertainment they count on weighs heavy on my shoulders. It’s pushing me into the embrace of a man whom I didn’t know from a bar of soap two minutes ago.
“You look very pretty, Laura,” he says smoothly.
I reply on autopilot, “You, too!”
He gives me a crooked—and unexpectedly sexy—smile.
