His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone Read Free Book Online Page A

narrowed. “You don’t want to get married?”
    “Aren’t we supposed to spend weeks sorting all this stuff out?”
    “Touché.” He downed the fish, eyed her beef. “Aren’t you hungry?”
    “I ate your entree.”
    He swapped his empty plate for her steak. Ice chinked as he filled two water glasses.
    “Don’t take this the wrong way.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t have picked you for the type of woman who goes running.”
    “A little less padding wouldn’t hurt.”
    “Your view. Not mine.” His gaze dipped to her collarbone, grazed the cleft between her breasts. If Abraham Lewis MP had looked at her like that she would have kicked his shin.
    “Lacy said the endorphins will hit me at some stage and I’ll start to crave the exercise but I don’t think that happens until about week ten.”
    “And what week is this?”
    “Week two. Stop laughing!” She kicked his shin.
    The microphone burped. Lacy’s father, red‐faced and stiff, tapped it. Christina groaned and sliced her finger across her neck.

    Lily Malone
    “Let me guess. You don’t like speeches?”
    “I hate wedding speeches.”
    Someone hushed them then like they were noisy spectators at a tennis match.

    ****
“It’s not working.”
    On the stage, Aunt Vanda’s wrinkled finger made the microphone fart. “Can anyone hear me?”
    A waiter stopped serving portions of wedding cake and leapt to her aunt’s rescue.
    Seconds later, Vanda’s voice rattled the windows. “I want all the single ladies.”
    “I think your Aunt is channelling Beyoncé,” Tate said.
    “The woman’s the bouquet‐toss Nazi.” Christina slouched lower in her seat, angling her hat over her face. Aunt Vanda, fairy lights from the drum‐kit firing through her parachute skirt, shielded her eyes and peered into the crowd.
    Christina tugged Tate’s hand. “Quick before she sees me.”
    He pushed his chair back. “What did you do for rescue before I came along?”
    “I had the cops on speed dial.”
    His fingers stiffened around hers and for a second she thought he planned to rat her out, but then he turned her under his arm and let her lead him across the room.
    Sliding doors released them from the foyer into air green with the scent of freshly cut grass. Skateboard wheels scraped along South Terrace and an ambulance siren cut over the hum of late‐night city traffic. Her boots thudded on bitumen, silver bells around her ankle chimed. Beside her Tate floated like Santa’s light‐footed elf.
    She sucked in a deep breath, felt cold air surge through her lungs. The adrenalin kick reminded her of how it used to feel when she shot clay‐pigeon targets with her father: that frozen moment staring down the sights at the bird. Exhale. Squeeze. Kill. She’d been good at it once. Nerves of steel, Richard Clay said she’d had.
    They walked under a swarm of moths harassing a lamp and their shadows stretched to darken the path ahead. She squared her shoulders, wet her lips—
    “I know what you’re about to say, Christina. So before you ask, I’ll tell you again: I don’t do wine brands.” His voice was soft, flat and inarguable as taxes.
    Just what she’d been afraid of. She sensed his hand on the door of her dream, about to shove it shut. She had to make him hear her out.
    Her chin rose. “You know I don’t give up that easily.”
    “I figured that after the fiftieth phone call.”
    “I want you as my consultant because you don’t have any wine brands on your list.
    You give me a point of difference. I want you to do for me what you did for Lila Blu.”
    That took him aback. “You know Lila?”
    “She sits on some art gallery board with Saffah. What you’ve done for Blu Jewels is mind‐blowing. You made ruby nose‐studs cool last summer. That’s the type of campaign I want.”
    “You’re not listening.”
    “No, you’re not listening. What’s the big deal? Why no wine brands? Are you going to tell me your client list is full?” Her voice was loud