Page 122 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

Behind me, I sense Damian’s body grow rigid. The anger rolls off of him in waves and slams into me. My thighs tremble and my core melts… Jesus, the fact that even his anger turns me on so is depraved. I stare around the room, take in another breath, "You should know that he’s writing again, and his lyrics are nothing short of genius."

"Knew it!" Arpad stabs a finger in Damian’s direction. "Those words on your phone were yours, weren’t they?"

"Who’s writing?" Edward rises to his feet. "Is it Damian, you mean?"

"Lyrics?" Weston gasps in mock horror.

"Genius?" Saint’s brow furrows.

"We talking about the same person here?" Sinclair finally drawls.

"Totally." I flex my fingers, which tremble. "You should read some of what he’s written. It’s vintage Damian Savage. The kinds of words which broke hearts and made his early album a cult hit—"

"Hold on," Damian snaps from behind me. "You read what I wrote."

"Oops," I curls my fingers at my sides, "I shouldn’t have said that, huh?" I turn to him, "I can explain—"

"You read my work when I specifically told you not to."

"D… Damian… No, it’s not like that."

"Then what is it like, huh?" He closes the distance between us and the tips of his boots brush against my stilettos. Yeah, I’d actually decided to pull out all the stops, gone in for the entire bride-in-white look. Not that the man has noticed, apparently, for he hasn’t said a word on that. Not that I’d allowed him to, considering I’d pulled this crazy stunt on him.

"Damian," I whisper, "let me explain."

"Oh, you will." He curves his fingers about my shoulders, then lowers his forehead to mine. "Later, when we are alone, you can tell me all about your little spying trip in my space.

"I told you it’s not like that," I insist. "I didn’t go into your studio."

He frowns down at me. "Still lying to me, I see?" His gaze darkens. He releases me, then turns me around to face the rest of our very interested audience.

"Well, now that the bride to-be is also here, we may as well as commence the ceremony."

"Hey, hold on, you weren’t going to start without us, were you?" Summer marches in, Victoria at her heels.

Isla races inside, "Hey, has anyone seen Julia? I can’t find her in the dressing room and—" she steps inside and spots me, "Oh, hell, Jules, what are you doing here?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. What should I say? I did something stupid? I got cold feet, and decided to come in search of my bridegroom—stupid I know, but too late—and found he was getting cold feet too, and that had made me angry. I knew I had to do something, but then the guys had begun to rib him, and well, I had to step in. Damn it, why do I feel so protective about this alphahole, when, clearly, the tenderness is something that is not yet reciprocated?

"She’s exactly where she should be," Damian’s voice rings out in the silence.

I glance sideways at his countenance. The skin around his lips is stretched tight and that vein at his temple is throbbing with such vehemence, I swear it’s going to pop.

"Damian," I whisper, and he tightens his hold on my shoulder.

I wince. "Ouch," I protest, "you’re hurting me."

"Good," he hisses under his breath, then glances back at Isla. "Change of plans. We are getting married here."

"What?" I gasp.

"Here?" Isla pales. "B…but the press who’ve been invited?"

"Fuck the press," Damian growls.

"Now, now, ol’ chap." Arpad steps forward. "Let’s think this through. You need the press."

"I’ve done without them for this long," Damian barks back.