Fractured (Not Quite a Billionaire #2) (8 page)

Hope

Hemi was weird.

He’d made love to me so tenderly the night before, exactly as sweetly as he’d been fierce earlier in the day. He’d held me tight and showed me how well he knew how to please me, and how willing he was to make the effort. And when he’d whispered those Maori words in my ear, I’d breathed in his scent, run my hands over his warrior’s body, ached with love for him, and had known I was getting the man behind the mask, the vulnerable, caring, fiercely tender man he showed to nobody but me.

He’d been the same when we’d woken this morning. His mood had seemed so loving, so…lighthearted, even. But now? He’d been his most brooding, reserved self all the way to Auckland, and I didn’t know why. I wanted to ask him if he were having second thoughts after all, or if it was something else—bad news from work, maybe—but how could I, with Karen in the car?

When he’d come back to his grandfather’s house a couple hours ago, he’d stalked straight through the kitchen, picked me up out of my chair, kissed me hard, and held me so tightly, it had almost hurt. I’d heard Karen exclaim, “Whoa,” but I hadn’t cared about that. I’d held Hemi and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” I’d thought he’d been overcome by the step he’d taken, and I’d wanted him to know I understood.

Then he’d stood back, his hands gripping my arms, looked into my eyes, and said, “Want to go buy a wedding dress?”

“Yes,” I’d said, trying to smile at him, but off-balance at the intensity I still saw in his eyes. “I do.”

His expression had finally softened. “Practicing saying that, eh.”

“Could be.” I’d smiled some more, but he hadn’t smiled back. “Did you get the license?”

“Collecting it tomorrow. It’ll be done. Let’s go.”

He’d grown quieter and quieter once we’d climbed into the car for the two-hour journey to Auckland, resisting all my attempts to draw him out to the point where I eventually asked him, “Do you mind if we listen to some music?”

“No worries.” He punched a button on the dash to connect the Bluetooth so that the playlist he’d made for me had filled the silence. And I told myself that a man who asked you what music you liked, then made sure it was playing for you…that was a man who loved you, no matter how silent and preoccupied he was. Which probably had nothing to do with me.

It’s not all about you,
I scolded myself.
He’s an incredibly busy man with a lot on his mind.

We drove through Auckland on the motorway, finally exiting at someplace called Penrose, which wouldn’t be featuring on any list of “Auckland’s Most Glamorous Suburbs.”

“Uh…” Karen said from the back seat, looking around as we drove past warehouses and manufacturing plants for things like insulation and plumbing fixtures. “Exactly what kind of dresses are you thinking we’ll wear, Hemi? Hope’s not that fashion-forward.”

“Wait and see,” he said, seeming to lighten up a little. He pulled into an undistinguished parking lot and led us through a glass door into a long, low building, then down a hallway until we emerged into a high-ceilinged, stark space, painted white and filled with racks of clothing. Most of the garments seemed to be black, with a little brown, white, and gray here and there to break the monotony, like we’d entered the No-Color Zone. Huge drafting tables stood against two walls, with men and women bent over them. Another wall was taken up by sewing machines, most of which were in action.

A tall, angular woman came out of this busy scene to meet us. She was dressed in Early Prison Uniform: skinny black pants and a boxy, severe camel-colored tunic. Her black hair was swept back from a high white forehead, while rectangular black-framed glasses made an uncompromising statement on a face made up of slabs of cheekbone, beaky nose, and strong chin.

“Hemi,” she said, reaching for him with both hands and looking up into his face. “Darling. It’s been too long.”

“Violet.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek that she accepted with cool grace, then said, “This is my fiancée, Hope Sinclair, and her sister Karen.” I was still taking in that “fiancée,” and thinking that in five days, he’d be introducing me as “my wife,” and was probably looking like a deer in the headlights at the thought, but he was going on, telling me, “This is Violet Renfrow. She’s going to dress you and Karen.”

Karen tugged at Hemi’s arm and said in a supposedly low voice that I heard just fine, and that I was sure Violet could hear, too, “Hemi. Look
around.
This is all way too plain. Hope needs girly stuff. You know how she is. She’s not going to want to tell you no, but she’s going to be so
sad.
It’s her
wedding.”

Hemi was smiling for almost the first time today. “Nah,” he said, not lowering his voice one bit. “Wait and see. Violet’s the best Kiwi designer going.”

“Maybe,” Karen said, undeterred. “If you like black. Which Hope doesn’t. Especially not to get
married
in.”

Violet was smiling now, too, not looking quite so scary. “Why aren’t you dressing your bride yourself, darling?” she asked Hemi.

“It was a bit sudden, you could say.” Hemi came over to put an arm around me as if he thought I might be feeling intimidated. Which would be correct. “Besides, she says I’m not meant to see her in the dress until the day. She wants to come to me like she’s…new, I reckon. She wants to knock me sideways and make me feel lucky to get her, and I want to give her what she wants.”

I was turning red, I could tell. The part about coming to him like I was new—it was true, but it sounded too sexual. Or was that just me?

Violet observed him through narrowed eyes and said, “You’re too bloody sexy for your own good, Hemi Te Mana. Has anybody ever said no to you? It’d be good for you.”

I uttered a choked laugh, and Hemi laughed, too, then said, “Ask Hope. She may enlighten you, though probably not. I’ll leave these two in your hands, shall I? Sure you can make it happen for Saturday?”

“If they can come up again on Thursday so we can do any final alterations,” Violet said. “I’ll send somebody down with the dresses on Saturday morning. But I’d only do that for you, and I’ll be charging you double. Plus the courier fee, of course.”

“And I’ll pay it. And one more thing.” He took her far enough aside that I
couldn’t
hear and started talking, and Violet was nodding.

I’d find out what it was all about. Maybe. The whole thing felt like some kind of “surprise makeover” show, and I wished I had some opinion about what my wedding gown should look like, but the truth was, I’d never considered it. It was the bride’s responsibility to dress herself—at the very least—which meant I’d always figured I’d wear a…well, a dress.

That I already owned.

If I got married at all.

See what I mean? I’d never had what you’d call high expectations. You could say I was out of my depth here, and you’d be right. But at least Hemi was looking more relaxed. Back to his in-charge self, which was his happy place.

Sure enough, he came back to me again and said, “You’ll text me when you’re done, and I’ll collect you.”

“Uh…” I was absurdly nervous, I suddenly had to pee absolutely ferociously, and I wanted to go back home and climb into bed. Alone. “I’m going to need…shoes.” And what else? I couldn’t even think.

Oh, God. Hair. Makeup. Waxing. Underwear. Bouquet. Uh…veil? Or what? I was sweating now.

I’d thought this would be sort of…free and easy. Spontaneous. All right, casual. But this was Hemi, so how could I have thought that? I realized now that he’d be expecting me to be perfect, and I didn’t have a clue how to manage that from a small town in a strange country, not to mention how to pay for it. I was still the same broke woman from Brooklyn he’d met nine months ago. Worse, if anything, because Karen had needed an allowance now that she was in high school, and the rent had gone up, and…well, life never seems to get cheaper, does it?

He was buying my dress, which was bad enough. How could you say, “Darling, could you please give me about five hundred dollars to get plucked and waxed and tinted and pedicured and flawless, so you’ll enjoy our honeymoon and think I’m gorgeous? And drive me to do it? And buy me some fancy shoes and bridal underwear? And by the way—I’ll need some more jewelry.”

“You’re worrying,” he said, as if he could read my mind, which probably wasn’t that hard. “Stop worrying. You’re going to be beautiful. I could marry you here and now and feel exactly as lucky as I will on Saturday.”

“I won’t be, though,” I said. “There are all these…things to get done.” I’d lowered my voice, had taken a couple steps back, and now, nausea had come to join the party. Great. I was going to pee right here on the concrete floor, then throw up. Or both at once. That would be memorable. “I’m not ready.”

His eyes were searching mine. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “we both know what’s important, and we’re doing it. We signed that agreement. We made our promises.”

I swallowed and nodded. When we’d come back to his grandfather’s house early that morning, the first thing Hemi had done was print it out. We’d each signed a copy, and Hemi had handed me mine. “With amendments to come as we need them,” he’d said. “Whatever we need to work out, we’ll do.” And I’d believed him. Until, that is, he’d been so strange on the drive up, causing all my doubts to return.

Or maybe that was the “beautiful” bit.

“Excuse me a second,” I told him. I turned to Violet with as much grace as I could manage and asked, “May I use your restroom, please?”

“Of course,” she said. “Straight down the corridor.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Hemi said. “I’m leaving anyway.”

He looked like he wanted to have some reassuring chat in the corridor, like he was expecting to kiss me, but I couldn’t wait for that. I said, “Sorry, but I really need to…” and ducked into the restroom.

When I came out a full five minutes later, during which I
hadn’t
been sick and
had
sluiced some water over my face, then realized I’d washed off half my makeup…well, he was gone. On the other hand, I’d had time to think. If I were worried that he’d be disappointed by my appearance at our wedding, and if I thought that would matter, how could I be ready to marry him?

It wasn’t exactly a reassuring thought, but it forced me to confront my own emotions as I headed back out into the bustling workspace. Bottom line: did I trust Hemi? Yes. I did. That was all that mattered. The rest of it wasn’t about him. It was about me: my own insecurities, my own fears at stepping so quickly into this new life. I was just going to have to get over myself, do my best to look good for my wedding day, and trust that his love was deeper than that.

It’s never over,
he’d said.
I’m never leaving you.

Trust. It was a thing.

I approached Violet, who was standing with Karen in front of a hanging rack holding short and long dresses in shades of white, gray, and black.

Oh, great. Black. Karen was right. This so wasn’t me.

“All right?” Violet asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Fine.” I gave my clammy hands a surreptitious wipe on my skirt and felt about as classy as a moose at a banquet.

She said, “Hemi told me your accent color would be lavender, but of course, Karen can’t wear lavender.”

“Uh…she can’t?” My accent color was lavender? First I’d heard of it. I hadn’t realized I
needed
an accent color.

Lavender’s for enchantment.
I heard Hemi’s voice saying it, all the way back in a rose garden in Brooklyn. He’d told me later that lavender roses were for the fairy tale, for love at first sight, for true love. For all the things neither of us had believed in.

“Lavender would wash her out,” Violet said. “Hemi said you’d be carrying lavender and white roses, and that Karen would be carrying yellow and white.”

Yellow’s for friendship.
Hemi had said that, too. He wanted Karen to have yellow, because he knew how important it was to me that he want Karen as part of our lives, and he wanted to show me he did. We were a package deal, and he was taking it.

Violet was going on now, and I struggled to listen. “Lavender, white, and pale yellow, with deep purple accents.” She made a note on her phone. “Delicate. Feminine. Perfect.”

“Oh,” I said stupidly. Trust Hemi to have thought about my flowers, and about colors, too. How many bouquets of lavender roses had he sent me? So many, because they were my favorites, and because of what they meant to both of us. And now, he was making sure I got married with them. My doubts seemed foolish, all of a sudden.

Trust. Yeah. It was
definitely
a thing.

“So,” Violet said, “let’s get started. I don’t have any gowns made up in yellow, but we’ll choose the style, and I’ll swap the fabrics out. No worries.” She snapped her fingers at a young red-haired woman hovering nearby. “The big fitting room, Fiona. Now that I’ve seen you both, I’ve got it. One-two-three go.”

It seemed being bossy was a Fashion Designer job qualification.