The wedding bells are ringing in the cathedral overhead, and the smell of freshly-cut roses is in the air. I’ve donned my finest tux and my best bow-tie—now, all I’m waiting for is my blushing bride.
But Elsa Blakely doesn’t blush.
In fact, as of right now, Elsa Blakely still isn’t here.
Part of me is so sure she’s going to show; I’d bet all twelve inches of my cock on it.
Another part of me—a part significantly smaller than my massive fucking cock, for the record—worries.
Maybe she really is done with me this time.
Maybe she won’t show up at all.
If she doesn’t, all these fucking people are going to be pretty damn pissed. It takes a lot of clout to get an invite to the Sharpe-Blakely wedding—and I would know, considering that I addressed most of the invitations myself.
I wanted these people to see that I had invited them with my own handwriting, had taken time out of my busy day to put their names on the envelopes in ink.
Maybe then, they’d get the message, you know? My time is worth three million dollars a minute, and I chose to spend it putting my high school calligraphy classes to use while addressing wedding invitations.
It might not say a lot to some, but to these people? These fat cats and industry giants?
It says more than you’d think.
This isn’t a fucking game for me anymore—and I’m here to prove it.
I want Elsa Blakely to be my wife, and if she stands me up...
Well, there are worse ways to spend a Saturday, I guess.
Fucking Elsa. I haven’t seen her since that glorious fucking fight.
My only communication with her has been through Lis fucking Langley. Anything else was out of the question, for reasons I’m not exactly at liberty to expose quite yet.
I’m pacing outside of the church—confident, but not over confident. I know only too well what a hard woman Elsa Blakely is to pin down. So, I’m not about to go counting anything a sure win until I see her on the other end of the aisle before me, all dolled up and dressed in white.
“Nervous, Sharpe?” a smug little voice says from behind me.
“You wish, Langley.” I turn and smile my million-dollar smile at her. “Tanner Sharpe: Nervous Wreck at the Aisle. Your papers would sell themselves.”
Lis Langley, in her soft pink formal dress, shrugs. “They already do. But if Elsa doesn’t show...”
“Oh, she’ll show,” I reassure her, adjusting my cuff links.
In fact, if Elsa’s not showing, I’ll eat my own dress shoes.
They’re Italian leather. Expensive. Soft but very durable.
Actually, if my estimations are right, she’ll be showing about six months or so at this point.
“You seem sure of yourself.”
“Oh, I am. I mean—really, Lis. Just look at me.”
Lis pulls a face. “Not my type. Him, on the other hand...”
My best man, Nathan Hudson, comes up behind me and claps me on the back. He’s got golden blonde hair and the eyes of a Swedish prince—he’s a fucking looker, and I’m man enough to be able to admit it.
And the way Lis is looking at him...