Page 9

“No way!” She practically flew out of the chair, and the hair stylist brought her hands to her shoulders, pushing her back down.

She also rolled her eyes but was smart enough not to mutter anything under her breath.

I knew Jade was difficult, but if she said one thing—one measly thing—by way of insulting Jade, then I’d see to it that her career as a hair stylist was dead and buried deeper than just six feet under.

She wouldn’t get a job here or anywhere else unless it was the North Pole, working on the gray hairs belonging to Mrs. Claus.

“Screw you, Red,” she muttered, but stayed in the chair.

“I’m not completely opposed to that.”

“I mean it. I’ll dress myself.”

“Fine, but wear a bra.” Because if you don’t, I’m going to be staring at your tits all night long wanting to fuck them, to leave my mark all over them.

“How will I give you the satisfaction of seeing my nipples then?” Goddamn this woman and her obvious goal to drive me completely mad.

I growled, ignoring her comment. It was for the best because, while there were some things I’d say, I did know when to shut my mouth. “The engagement party is this weekend, so now you can’t say I sprung that on you, too.”

“How can you pull that off so soon?”

“My mother’s planning it.”

“Like that’s explanation enough.”

“Lyonses get shit done.”

“She’s technically not a Lyons anymore.”

“Semantics.”

“Facts.”

“Whatever.”

* * *

Jade

“You really get your balls waxed?”

The photographer kept snapping pictures, even though we’d only moved half an inch from the position he’d had us in before. My hand was on Red’s pec, my eyes looking up “wistfully” at him as he looked at the camera.

It seemed a little too on the nose if you asked me, what with the man looking completely oblivious to the woman’s interest in him and whatnot. Who knew photographers would want to capture that? Well, in his defense, he referred to them as editorial poses. I referred to them as ironic.

Red wasn’t supposed to be smiling, only looking stoic, so he tried his best not to move an inch. I was grateful for that actually because the last time I moved—to sneeze mind you!—the asshole with the camera made us do the pose over again and remain like that for an additional two minutes.

Wasn’t one photo enough?

Not with this one. He needed two hundred of the same one. Looking through this galley was going to be mind-numbing. All of the photos were going to look the same, so how could anyone tell them apart to choose their favorites?

Red hardly moved his mouth as he answered my earlier question. “No. I did once a long fucking time ago, and it was a painful bitch.”

“Bummer,” I whispered, trying really hard not to laugh at the image I’d conjured up in my head of Red getting his balls waxed.

“How do you figure?”

“I’ve never seen a man bald down there before. It could’ve been an experience.”

“Look up a picture.”

The photographer angled his camera down, and all I could do was pray we were done and that was the last pose. “Can you pick Jade up?” So much for praying.

I looked down and seethed. “I’m wearing a dress.”

Red rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to show the world your vagina. Do you honestly think I would do that? I’m going to scoop you up, like this.”

As he went to do it, hoisting me up in his arms, the photographer shouted for us to stop. “No, no, no. I want a butt shelf.”

“A what?” I asked, disgust evident in my voice.

Sorry, but how could I not be disgusted?

I was in a studio with a man who made it out to be like these photos were going to save the world from an alien apocalypse one day.

I was wearing so much makeup that my face actually felt heavy.

Part of me highly doubted there was enough makeup remover in the state to get it all off.

And don’t even get me started on the false lashes.

They were making it a chore just to keep my eyelids open.

Red scratched his chin. “Maybe you can show us what you’re talking about.”

The man nodded and walked over to us, looking like he was intent on actually showing us by doing it to me himself.

Red didn’t let him get any closer than an arm’s length away from me. “Not on her,” he clarified, his eyes looking down at the man like he was an idiot for thinking he could touch me. “Don’t you know how to use your words and show us with your hands in the air, far the fuck away from my fiancée?”

The man nodded rapidly, like he couldn’t nod enough.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He backed up and went back to where he was earlier.

“You’re going to want to place your hands under her buttocks and lift her up.

She can place her arms around your neck for support.

That way in case you’re going to drop her—”

“Do I look like the type of guy who would drop his girl?” Red’s eyes flashed with anger and threats. Without using any words, he was daring him to say or do the wrong thing one more time.

I’d say the photographer was walking on very thin ice.

Was it bad that I hoped he’d make another misstep? That way, we could leave and I could get out of this poufy, short, white dress and heels that were making my calves burn with how long I’d been standing in them.

Without another word, Red brought his arms together and hoisted me up, placing them firmly underneath my ass and lifting me up so that I was a little bit above his head and peering down at him.

I didn’t even need to wrap my arms around his neck because he had me, and I knew he did. Then again, men were programmed to be stupid. I should probably be on the safe side. So, I wrapped my arms around him and smiled.

“You have red lipstick on your teeth,” he informed me, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’d volunteer to lick it off, but I don’t think we’re there yet.”

And we never would be there. That was for real couples. Real, disgustingly adorable couples. “I just won’t smile with my mouth open.”

He looked like he was holding back laughter. “This is worse than going to the dentist for you, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I don’t mind going to the dentist. I hate the doctor, particularly when they draw my blood.” Then I nodded. “But yeah, this is worse than that for me.”

“Why?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “Just think about all of the people you’re going to make envious.”

“Of what?” I’d never known anyone to be jealous of me. That would mean they wanted my life, which I wasn’t entirely sure anyone would.

“Us. You.”

“If someone wishes they were me, then they’re stupid. You don’t know anything about a person unless you’ve walked a day in their shoes.”

“It’s all about what you put out there for people to see. They latch onto that and become obsessed with what they dream up in their head.” He smirked. “I don’t know about you, but I love making people wish they were me.”

Just another way we were different. “I don’t really care what people think, to be honest. So, I guess for me it doesn’t really matter.”

“It’s not about caring. It’s human nature to want to be someone others aspire to be. If you deny that, then you’re kidding yourself.”

Shaking my head, I swallowed. “What is this, the worst first date ever? You have horrible talking points.”

“We’re almost done,” the photographer shouted.

Someone heard my prayers.

“Don’t move,” he warned, snapping more pictures.

New thing: I hated being photographed.