No Perfect Princess Page 7

  If I could only lay claim to a shred of that peace.

  Not if you keep carrying this goddamn torch for Margaux Asher.

  Not if every ping from your phone makes your gut leap like it has for the last six months, hoping it’s a message or picture from her.

  Not if you don’t grow a pair and realize what you have with her is nothing more than a long-distance—if flirty to the point of dangerous—relationship.

  The time and distance I’d thought would save me? Backfired would be a kind assessment. Like an untended spark in dry brush, my thoughts of her burned more fiercely than before. To quote the worse cliché of them all, she was under my goddamn skin. I could no more fight it than I could explain it, only knowing that once my time in Julian hit the one month mark, I’d been no more ready for “getting back to normal” than I was before. I wasn’t sure I even knew what “normal” was anymore—only that if it meant rewinding life to the days when I didn’t have her at all, then I was completely content being abnormal for another month more. Then another. And another. And three more after those.

  And I still wasn’t ready. After six goddamn months, a handful of phone calls, and those let’s-dance-around-the-truth texts…I was still wondering when my turn in the “moving on” queue was coming.

  Under my skin?

  Who the hell was I kidding?

  Somehow, this sorceress of a woman had burrowed into my spirit, my mind, and my body. Ohhh, shit, my body. I’d given up trying to reason it out, only knowing that even her texts were like butterfly kisses on my cock. And the phone calls, being subjected to the husky beauty of her voice? The wood between my thighs could’ve occupied an acre in the groves all by itself.

  Not an empty promise. I’d quickly learned that the groves were a great place to get alone for taking the edge off things.

  Fuck.

  Was there a twelve-step program for this shit somewhere?

  Hi, I’m Michael, and I jack off in the apple groves to thoughts of Margaux Asher. It’s been about five seconds since my last thought of her…

  I had to get over this.

  Like there was a “this” to get over. Six months had only driven the point in harder. We weren’t a “this” and couldn’t ever be. The woman was—

  Smart. Snarky. Sexy.

  Challenging. Charming. Sexy.

  Wicked. Wild. Sexy.

  And so fucking far out of my league…

  She was the hottest girl in school. The beauty in the castle tower. And yeah, I cleaned up well, but under it all, I was still the geek at the back of class, and the serf at the bottom of the hill…

  The apple farmer’s son, fallen for the girl who’d worn Prada onesies.

  Nothing seared that truth deeper into me than the next moment—

  When I actually saw her again.

  She paused at the end of the aisle, addressing the crowd like a princess acknowledging her subjects. One arm was hooked gracefully beneath the elbow of Killian’s brother, Lance.

  As they started walking again, a funnel clamped over my vision. Everything fell away except the awareness of her. The beauty of her.

  Christ. My knees were literally weak.

  I swayed.

  Paralyzed.

  Speechless.

  Not that anyone was asking me to speak up at the moment. But this stall into inarticulate…it was more than the words refusing to form on my lips. It was the thoughts no longer bridging in my mind, rerouting down different paths, past the typical roadmaps I’d used to keep her far away, locked high in her tower, still “safe” from the valley of my fantasies.

  As I stared—and stared—and stared—the valley fell away, too.

  Forget paralyzed. I was hypnotized. By everything about her…

  The strong elegance of her steps.

  The proud set of her head.

  The perfect lift of her lips.

  The ivory angles of her shoulders, rising from the strapless bodice of her dress—

  Holy fuck, that dress.

  Until now, I couldn’t get enough of how the woman rocked T-shirts, jeans, and boots when we went out for beer and darts. Cancel that order, boss. I had a new Margaux fashion favorite. Red. The crimson material fit her in every perfect way I could imagine, hugging her breasts, waist and hips before flaring into layers that were all romance, grace, and Ginger Rogers. Just enough ankle and leg showed with every step she took, along with a pair of strappy gold heels she was born to wear.

  I locked my gaze to those shoes. Not like strappy pumps were my new fetish; it simply seemed the safest view for the moment, considering everything that slammed my brain when I fixated north of her waist. How much trouble could her feet get me into?

  I had to ask.

  Dumb shit.

  First, I thought about how elegant her feet looked, no matter what she was doing—even bopping to the jukebox at the High Dive. Adorable, carefree girl. Then I thought about how she’d hike her cute ass on one of the barstools and taunt me by dangling a shoe off one of her toes. Ruthless, seductive woman. Wasn’t hard to make a jump from there, remembering how she’d slide off the seat for a trip to the ladies room, imitating something she called “the Olivia Pope strut”. How the feisty sway of her ass made me yearn to climb off my own seat, follow her to the bathroom, and—

  Shit.

  Maddening, magnificent goddess.

  Now all I could think about were her heels parked on my shoulders. Her ankles beneath my lips. Her legs locked around my neck as I surged my body into hers, over and over, harder and harder—

  Shit.

  Her feet weren’t an option, either.

  The plain and simple? I was doomed. Dazzled to the point of motionless, not daring to move for fear the chafe of my pants would turn my erection into a goddamn tent pole.

  This was all so strange, looking at her but feeling like I’d never seen her until now. I suddenly realized that even after I’d come to those new opinions of her last summer, first impressions had hung around for a while. Ice princess. Bitch on wheels. Jacqueline Frost. Maybe I’d kept them around as a safety net against the inevitable—tumbling fast and hard like this. If that was so, I’d sure as hell misplaced the thing now. Funny what could go missing during a six-month exile…

  And what hung around, no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it.

  As soon as she turned and looked toward me, I was as good as a dry pine in a brushfire.

  Two seconds of a glance, maybe three—but I was in hopeless thrall. The sun gleamed across her whole face but concentrated in her eyes, transforming them to brilliant green stars, searing into me even deeper.

  Paradise. Purgatory.

  Thank God it was time to focus on the bride.

  Claire was, to be cliché, fucking perfect. I was sure even the birds in the trees stopped as the quartet changed up their tune, breaking into a sweet version of A Thousand Years as she and her father, Colin, walked up the aisle. Her white gown was also strapless, and adhered to the understated elegance she used in dressing for every occasion. A delicate diamond necklace hung to the hollow of her throat, leading the eye to tiny jewels embedded into the gown’s neckline. The bodice was fitted to an empire waist before flowing down, Grecian goddess fashion, in layers that billowed behind her in all the right ways. With her hair gathered beneath a double-stranded Grecian headpiece, she really did seem Aphrodite come to life—or maybe just Wonder Woman, the glammed-up version. The woman seemed to possess extra super powers tonight—if the permanent drop of Killian’s jaw was any giveaway.

  I traded a smirk with his best buddies, Drake Newland and Fletcher Ford, who were serving as ushers along with Chad and myself. Their faces said it all. They didn’t get chances to witness Kil as the spokes model for gobsmacked very often, so they relished every moment. Chad’s lips quirked too, joining in Fletch and Drake’s private party, but no way in hell was I jumping in. How could I bask in Killian’s fight for composure, when I related to so much of it?

  Focus o
n Claire. Focus on Claire. Focus on Claire.

  Stupidest call of my life.

  Had I conveniently forgotten the maid of honor was the one who helped the bride—as in standing next to her? As in, all I had to do was click my vision one degree to the right in order to stare again at the eyes, the smile, even the damn feet of the lady in red who rapidly gave me balls of blue?

  And now told me, with another glance my way, that her serenity was just an act for the cameras?

  Dammit.

  I locked my hands behind my back. Ordered them to stay there, subsidizing my battle not to rush to her and haul her into my arms, soothing that anxiety. As far back as Thanksgiving, she’d hinted about how hard today might be, having to see Andrea after their estrangement. She’d also changed the subject right after that—surprise, surprise—but I hadn’t pushed. The only thing I could do was support. Wasn’t like I could make this go away for her. She was the maid of honor, and Andrea the stepmother of the bride.

  But the stress was clearly taking its toll.

  And you think your long-distance hot and cold game hasn’t impacted the woman by one bit, asshole?

  “Pffft.” The disclaimer was barely audible, but useful. It was time to be honest with myself. The escape up the mountain was over. While it hadn’t done shit for getting me over Margaux, I held no illusions that she’d ever taken the innuendos from our texts and calls “out to the orchard”. Moreover, she’d declined my invitations to come visit with increasing creativity—and contempt. Good thing I’d left Julian when I did, because I was pretty certain she’d be pulling the “my dog ate the gas card” next.

  I had to face a disgusting truth. There was a good chance someone—maybe a few someones—were fueling that ingenuity.

  A someone she might have even brought as her date to this gig.

  The realization hit like a physical blow. I rocked on my heels from it. Would anyone notice if I turned, marched to the gazebo, and drove a fist into one of the marshmallow poop pillars? What about just pounding my head into the thing?

  I swung a stare over the crowd. Until now I’d just skimmed over the sea of faces, not registering anyone except the key wedding party players and a few celebrities. Different story this time, at least for the guys. Which one of them gawked at Margaux as fiercely as me?

  Not any help. That covered nearly every bastard in the crowd. Okay, which one of them did it with that “I’m tapping that tonight” glint in his eyes? I was no Special Forces stud but I knew how to disguise paranoia when I had to—

  Except when it was interrupted by the start of Killian and Claire’s vows—

  And was hit by the gleam of sun, shimmering through tears—

  On Margaux’s face.

  Keep your jaw off the lawn, man.

  Much easier said than done.

  Kil and Claire had opted for traditional vows, every syllable in its rusty but mushy place, which doubled my shock at Margaux’s reaction. The woman didn’t do rusty. She really didn’t do mush. But I couldn’t deny what I witnessed beneath the stubborn jut of her chin, the tiny wobble of her lips, the heavy gulps down her throat.

  Once more, with four times the intensity, I battled the craving to go to her.

  Get a fucking grip.

  It was a wedding, for chrissake. Girls cried for each other at weddings. It was no secret how she and Claire had grown closer over the last year. She was just happy for—

  So why did her waterworks get worse as Killian started his half of the vows?

  The answers in my gut weren’t encouraging. At all.

  When she and I first started hanging out, after whatever shit had hit the fan in Chicago, she’d gone straight-shooter with me about her “history” with Killian. I’d appreciated the honesty, having been in the limo the day she’d declared the man her next meal in front of us all. Very few knew the story of what happened after that, though—about the night a few months later, when she’d gone totally boiled bunny on the guy. After surprising Kil in his condo in a blatant bid at seduction, all she’d gotten was her ass handed to her on a platter of humiliation, confronted by the reality of how rock-solid he really was about Claire.

  When I’d sucked it up and asked her if any of her feelings for the guy lingered, her reaction had been surprising—and vehement. Appearing like my suggestion had shoved a lemon in her mouth, she’d declared that Killian was now more brother to her than lover.

  I’d thoroughly believed her—until now.

  Were those tears of happiness…or sorrow?

  Was Margaux’s discomfort due entirely to Andrea, or was another layer at play here? Had she been deceiving herself—and me, along for that ride—when reassigning Killian to the like-a-brother zone? Had her feelings been rekindled by spending so much time near the man during the wedding preparations? Was that the reason she’d concocted so many reasons not to come up for a visit?

  Bashing my head into the gazebo was feeling like a better option by the second.

  *

  My head—and the gazebo—made it through the ceremony in one piece.

  I’d done the smart thing. Concentrated anew on Claire and Killian, taking encouragement from their love, certain the space station was picking up its brightness on radar. They exchanged rings then lit a unity candle, almost breaking the rules by macking down on each other then and there.

  If there was a single dry eye left in the place after that, Kil handled it by revealing a surprise he’d been saving for his bride: a duet performance of My Heart is Open, sung live by Adam Levine and Gwen Stefani. Until then, Claire had been impressively reining her composure to a few dewy tears. The song turned those tethers to dust, especially when the minister used the bridge to officially proclaim her as Mrs. Killian Stone. She sobbed so hard that she crumpled into Killian, giving the guy a perfect excuse to scoop her up and just carry her back down the aisle, surrounded by the wild applause of the crowd.

  I had to admit, the moment dissolved even my black cloud a little. For the next half hour, the usher-ly duties were a decent distraction, too. It also helped to offer a helping hand to the six-piece party band, freshly arrived to take the string quartet’s place in the gazebo. I killed another half hour at the bar with Chad, Drake, and Fletcher, probably learning more than I wanted about Killian’s two friends. They’d had quite an adventure last night at an “interesting” private club beneath one of downtown’s most famous—and supposedly respectable—dinner clubs. It was one of Andrea’s favorite places to take clients for dinner. Now I began to wonder why.

  Damn.

  Had Margaux discovered something along those lines about her mother? Was that the reason for their sudden estrangement last summer?

  And where the fuck did that leave Colin Montgomery?

  Poor, pussy-whipped man.

  You calling it like you see it, or just welcoming the dude into your boat?

  I rewarded the thought with a chest-deep snarl while sinking into an empty chair at an abandoned party table. A dinner buffet, catered by Wolfgang Puck’s team, had long ago been cleared. Many reception guests were lingering over their slices of red velvet wedding cake. Looked like Killian might still have a speck of it on his nose but it also looked like Claire didn’t care. Though the band was already a verse and a chorus into Uptown Funk, the pair still swayed in a corner of the dance floor, forehead to forehead, as if the strains of All I Ask of You, their first dance song, still filled the air. A few folks got up to start shaking their moneymakers, while kids chased each other around the lawn.

  Laughter. Music. Lights. Cake. Even the mist I’d predicted gave respect to the joy in the air, lingering at the edges of the party, afraid to ruin the night.

  Talk about your perfect romance movie scenes. And yes, I had authority to make the ruling, considering how many of the damn things Margaux made me sit through last summer.

  Last summer.

  When things had been simpler.

  Bullshit. You only remember them that way.

  “Sim
ple” wasn’t ever a luxury when it came to Margaux Asher.

  And that’s just the way you like it.

  Chest snarl number two. And another vow to never spend more than a month at a time back at home again. Clean air, fresh farm food, and no night life? Points for the clear lungs, the solid sleep patterns, and the body fat drop even with pie every night for dessert. Major minus for the solitude. Too damn much of it. Shit, even Christ only lasted forty days in the wilderness. I’d doubled that and then some. No wonder I dove into my head too much now.

  Mom had tried to be a gentle sounding board—and I appreciated her efforts—but between her book club, wine tasting group, kick boxing, and time on the shooting range, she also had city council duties, as well as making sure the PD kept the restraining order on Declan active. And oh yeah, running one of the mountain’s hugest orchards. That little thing.

  In short, my worries about her had been pointless.

  Clearing a swath through my brain for what-the-hell-do-I-do-now.

  But I wasn’t the fucking Dalai Lama. Aligning my chi was not the goal tonight.

  Finding a tactful and respectful way to get my ass out of here? A worthy goal. Hadn’t I seen an ad for a weekend marathon of Ice Road Truckers when thumbing SI while shoveling my oatmeal this morning? Boxers, beer and sixteen-wheelers on frozen lakes were sounding damn good.

  “Hey, Michael.”

  The soft greeting turned my head up. Instinctively, I added a smile, earning me an onslaught of giggles from the three young teen girls forming a semi-circle in front of me. The one who’d spoken, a little ginger with a spray of freckles across her nose, was the daughter of a guy who served on Stone Global’s Board of Directors. The other two were her companions for the party, a set of identical twins with blonde curls and mischievous grins crammed with orthodontics.

  “Oh. Hey…Kelsey.” Her name hit my brain just in time. Thank God I’d decided to save the heavier blood alcohol level for the IRT binge. “Who are your beautiful friends?”

  The trio giggled as I added a playful wink—and instantly realized the error of the decision. Crap. Take one impressionable teen girl, add two more, stir in several gallons of volatile hormones and—