TWENTY-ONE
HE WOKE UP tangled in her. Legs. Arms. Hair. Her back was to his front, her ass nestled against him. Their heads occupied the same pillow, the blankets wrapped around their waists. She smelled good; he nuzzled at her neck. She murmured and yawned, stretching out before him. His hand slid over her belly and fanned out, fingertips brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her foot nestled between his knees.
He indulged in Theresa’s presence as long as his bladder would allow, only disengaging at the last possible second. He slipped into the bathroom to take care of his morning rituals. As quietly as he could, he showered and dressed in last night’s clothes, which didn’t smell particularly great thanks to Harrah’s, but he was only one floor away from a fresh change. He poked his head out into the suite, and seeing Theresa still snuggled up with the pillows, he headed for the door.
He was almost in the hall when he remembered to write her a note.
Be right back. Clothes and breakfast.
He scrawled her name and folded the paper, dropping it off on the end table next to her head. He was an old dog, but he could learn new tricks.
He took the elevator up a floor and walked down the hall to his door. He was smiling as he got dressed. Smiling as he called down to room service ordering food to be delivered to Theresa’s room, smiling as he answered his cell phone . . .
Wait.
“Good morning, brother mine!”
“Hello, Sol.”
Alex tugged his belt through his belt loops, the cell phone propped between his ear and shoulder.
“I figured we were due for a check-in on where we’re at, with it being Friday already and the wedding being Sunday,” Sol said. “The good news: swans of all types, place settings, and caterers are all accounted for. The venue is set. Maddy’s put Patrice on making sure our guests get to the Capulet with little fuss. She’s also issuing warnings to everyone coming that we’ll feed them to the sharks if they leak anything to the press. If Patrice ever gets tired of Maddy’s shit, I’ll poach her, I swear. I could use a good PA. Anyway, Nash is calling the videographer and photo-booth people. Kitten wanted one of those. I don’t think she’s figured out she shouldn’t trust me near one. I want to do things to her inside of it.”
“You’re a pig,” Alex said.
“Yes, I know. But I’m a fun pig. So the bad news, I suppose, and really the only major thing still up in the air, is the florist. Tara printed out a list of Darlene’s contacts, if you’d be amenable to paying her one last visit to pick it up. She can’t email it because the office had its Internet shut off this morning. She apologized for losing your card, but I told her I’d relay the message either way. Mama says she’ll go if you can’t.”
“No, you should spend time with Mom while she’s here. I can go.” Alex checked his teeth in the mirror, using one of those mint-flavored plastic picks to floss.
“Thank you. Don’t forget to pick up your tux if you haven’t already.”
“I won’t.” Alex paused. “I mean I haven’t grabbed it yet, but I won’t forget.”
“Good. Okay, if we can get the flower thing taken care of, all we have to worry about is getting through the rehearsal dinner tonight. We moved it to a restaurant on Royale that just opened up—it’s a small place called Irene’s, but they have a lovely function room for the wedding party and out-of-towners. Who are all here, by the way. The Barrington crowd has reserved most of The Seaside’s second floor.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Alex eyeballed the clock: 9:30.
I want to get back upstairs to see her. Maybe run her a bath. Flowers. I should get some flowers from down the street to replace the ones she threw away when she was mad.
“Alex,” Sol said.
“Yes?”
“Are you listening to me?”
No.
“Of course I am. Royale Street.”
Lying’s a sin.
You’ve got a lot of talking to God to do, self. Confession later? If not today, tomorrow? I’ll check the schedule later.
“Okay, good, because this next part is important. I talked to Vaughan this morning. You’re going to want to keep an eye on Theresa. I know you’ve been ‘keeping an eye on her,’ wink-wink, nudge-nudge, but Mitchell and she have a history. Mitchell’s the shitty Barrington brother. He hit on her and got handsy and Vaughan hit him, which . . . what is it with everyone hitting people around here? Doesn’t anyone use words anymore?”
Alex had been in a fantastic mood until Sol dropped that little bomb. The idea of someone getting handsy with Theresa, who’d been gracious even in the face of Alex’s various missteps, made his jaw clench.
What kind of asshole . . .
“I hope he’s been warned,” Alex said. “I won’t brook that. If he does anything, I’ll—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Irritation was thick in his mouth, and he couldn’t seem to make himself talk around it.
“Don’t worry too much about it, Alex. Vaughan promised to snap off Mitchell’s legs if he misbehaves. I’d just rather keep you in the loop than not.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Alex pulled on his watch and moved the phone to the other ear. “Well, thank you for that. I should probably get going. I have to get some breakfast in me and then go see Tara. If I have to do the florist gauntlet . . .”
“Oh, does that mean you and Theresa aren’t joining us for brunch?” Sol’s voice was so even-keeled, so very placid, that Alex knew he was needling. Again.
Because he was a jerk.
“I’m going now,” Alex said.
“Oh, fine, you poop. Maddy says hello, by the way. She’s here rolling around on the floor with Freckles and Doodle.”
“Hello, Maddy,” Alex sighed into the phone.
In the background, Alex heard Maddy yelling, “Ask Theresa about Murphy!”
Sol and Maddy are two peas in a very annoying pod.
“Goodbye, you two. I’ll text you after I get the list of florists.”
He ended the call, not going straight to Theresa’s room, but instead down to the foyer and out through the front double doors.
It was a mistake.
The press was in a dither so close to the wedding, and upon seeing Alex, they unleashed their wrath on him, screaming for wedding details, shoving microphones into his face and demanding inside tips. Alex slowly retreated to the safety of the hotel, where two large men in black T-shirts, sunglasses, and black pants slid in front of him to facilitate his escape.
The doors closed, the cacophony of paparazzi somewhat dulled.
Behind him, a voice said, “It’s safe to go out the back door of the garage.”
Alex turned. Standing midfoyer, looking like he’d stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalog, was a Barrington brother he’d yet to meet in person. He was handsome, Darren-level handsome, but in a different, more polished way, with the signature Barrington golden hair and blue eyes. Beneath a narrow nose, he had a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, worn that way on purpose, no doubt. Slim-fitting khakis, a white polo, a sweater draped across his shoulders. Alex would have sworn he was the pretty boy bad guy from every eighties teen dramedy.
Is this Mitchell?
Alex’s expression must have darkened, because Yachting Barrington lifted his eyebrows as he took a sip of his coffee. “Have we met?”
Manners, Alex. There are six Barrington boys. You’ve only met two.
“Alex DuMont. The groom’s my brother. You must be one of Rain’s brothers?”
He offered his hand for a shake. The other man took it.
“Carlton. The poorly behaved one.” He said it without much care, a bright white smear of a smile appearing as he squeezed Alex’s fingers. “The press is outside the kitchen exit, too. I caught the short, angry chef dragging a hose over from the sink and aiming cold water at the stoop as a warning. I like that man. Gustav?”
Alex smirked. “Yes, Gustav. He’s been with the family for years.”
The tension eased from his shoulders and his grip relaxed. Carlton was not Mitchell, thus he was okay.
Carlton whirled and pointed behind him, at the hallway that lead to the garage. “That’s how I snuck in and out. Had to get my Starbucks. I know it’s indulgent and stupid, but I have a weakness.”
“I won’t judge you for your coffee choices,” Alex said.
Well, that’s another lie.
“You’re the exception to the rule then. Nice to meet you. Good luck escaping.” Carlton lifted his cup Alex’s way in a faux toast before heading to the glass elevator. Alex watched him go, trying to remember which brother was which. Richard was the heir—bachelor party, good guy for the most part. Mitchell was the asshole. Vaughan was also an asshole but in a goodish way as far as Alex could tell. Desmond was a Protestant minister, and Tommy was, by Sol’s account, a sweet, simple creature.
Which left Carlton, the . . .
Ladies’ man.
That’s right. He had the two illegitimate children, one with a pop star, one with some swimsuit model, each born within a year of each other.
So he’s not Mitchell bad, but not my cup of tea, either.
He’d been nice enough to tell Alex how to best avoid the press, though, and Alex was able to get out of The Seaside through a back gate in the garage. The press were so busy watching the cars leaving, they hadn’t clued into the opposite side gate escape. Alex was able to sneak out and dart up the street to a vendor, paying far too much money for a fresh bouquet of peach roses. For good measure, he grabbed a white bouquet, too, and sprinted back to the hotel, the morning temperature hot enough that he had sweat on his neck by the time he got back inside.
He arrived at Theresa’s room just as room service was pushing a cart down the hall.
Perfect.
Alex gave the staff member a hefty tip before stealing the cart away. After laying out the flowers on either side of their covered plates, he wheeled breakfast inside, only to discover Theresa stretched out on top of the blankets, bare. He couldn’t help but notice her still wearing the evidence of their night together. Her climbing on him, riding him, using him, turned into a second, later tryst that was far more tender, him spooning her from behind, her cooing out her pleasure as he worked her body.
He was suddenly keenly aware of his dick hardening in his pants.
Control yourself.
You’re not seventeen.
“I brought you breakfast,” he said quietly.
She cracked open a single brown eye and stretched. She was so tall that her toes touched the end of the bed and her hands touched the headboard. Her breasts did a lovely bounce before she pulled the coverlet over her body and sat up, motioning him near as she blew hair out of her eyes. “Thank you!”
He wheeled the cart to her side. She reached for the flowers, lifting them to her nose and sniffing, her fingers toying with the gathered stems, her cheek rubbing against the silken petals.
“You like them,” he said.
“I do.”
“Good, good.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled a bed tray out from the undercarriage of the cart so she could eat in bed. “I have to go to Weddin’ Kisses after breakfast—”
“We,” she interrupted.
“Hmm?”
“Aye. We have to go to Weddin’ Kisses, barring Rain needing me. I’ll check with her just to be sure, but no texts yet, so we have to go to Weddin’ Kisses.”
He peered at her for a moment, appreciating the roses clasped to her chest, the wild curls around her shoulders, the errant lock covering one of her eyes. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers gliding along her jaw and to her pointed chin afterward. “All right, we have to go to Weddin’ Kisses to get a list of florists. The business’s Internet was shut off, so Tara printed it for us. Hopefully it’ll go smoothly. After that we pick up my tux, and the rehearsal dinner’s at seven on Royale Street.”
“Sounds like a day,” she said.
He nodded and slid an omelet in front of her with all the fixings. “It does, and no day starts without a good breakfast, so . . .”