Стейси Кестуик - Wet

Copyright © 2015 by Stacy Keswick

Edited by Kay Springsteen

Cover design by Hang Le

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Holding my breath, I eased open the lid of the small velvet box, barely able to contain my excitement. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of our downtown Nashville loft hit the diamond ring, speckling the walls with tiny prisms.

Damn .

The air left my lungs in a surprised whoosh. That was some rock. I plucked the ring with the larger-than-expected center stone from its blue cushioned bed, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, and examined it the way one would inspect a dropped contact lens. The cushion-cut center diamond had to be at least two carats. And the side stones, another carat easily. “Wow,” I whispered, fighting the huge smile overtaking my face. I thought about slipping the ring on, wanting to see how it would nestle between my fingers, but I held back. I would only have that first moment once, and it should be after I said yes .

Returning the ring to the box, I replaced it exactly the way I’d found it, tucked under a stack of trouser socks in my boyfriend’s top dresser drawer, next to a tangle of power cords and chargers for his various pieces of tech. A laptop, iPod, GoPro camera, and two different sized tablets littered the top of his dresser.

I knew it. Asher was planning to propose. I squealed and jumped up and down like a little girl. When I’d gotten home early today — my scheduled afternoon photo shoot had to be canceled after a morning thunderstorm soaked the outdoor venue — I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the empty apartment to do a little snooping. Asher had been acting funny the last few weeks, fiddling with his computer and that top drawer, stopping whatever he was doing when I walked in the bedroom. I had been suspicious at first, but, really, this was Asher .

Predictable was Asher’s middle name.

He’d graduated summa cum laude two years ago from the University of Tennessee, his parents’ alma mater, and returned home to Nashville as expected to join his father’s prestigious accounting firm. He got his hair cut at the same place he had since he was seven. Ate the same turkey-and-cheddar sandwich for lunch every day. Had the same best friend since middle school. He was solid and steadfast, and I loved that about him.

Asher took the trash out. Opened my car door. Let me pick the radio station. Always paid the check. He was the epitome of what mothers hoped their daughters found in a man. Security, sweetness, and respect wrapped up in a lightly muscled, perfectly combed package. And predictable didn’t mean boring. We heated up the bedroom twice a week, occasionally spicing it up with lingerie or strawberries and cream, on Tuesday and Friday. Sometimes Saturday too, if it was football season and the University of Tennessee won their game. On those nights, Asher would yell, “Touchdown!” as he came inside of me. It was cute.

He was cute.

We were cute.

We were that couple. Best friends in high school who turned into more at college. The one that never argued and had already picked out the names of our future children — first a boy with his daddy’s charm named Michael, then a sweet apple-cheeked girl named Molly. Even our siblings got along. His older brother and mine had been college roommates at Vanderbilt.

I was the more rebellious one. Secretly getting a tattoo at seventeen. Earning a management degree at Vandy, like my brother Simon, but starting up a photography business upon graduation instead of joining my parents and brother in the music business like everyone assumed I would. Asher had been supportive, urging me to move in with him so he could help me out financially while I got my company off the ground. Never complaining about my crazy hours. Helping lug all my equipment around to shoots until I made enough money to hire my own assistant. Tolerant of my frequent visits to the South Carolina coast to visit Rue — my college roommate and best friend — for long weekends of girl time.

Beaming at the realization that I would most likely be engaged to the perfect guy in the next three weeks, I floated around the loft, daydreaming, touching the few hodgepodge holiday decorations we had scattered around. I bet he’d tuck it in my stocking, I mused, as I unpacked the new 800-thread-count sheets I’d bought us after lunch, an early Christmas present to ourselves. I planned to put them on the bed and don a red bra-and-panty set to be the bow on top of his surprise gift — it was Tuesday, one of our usual frisky days. The new satiny soft sheets had felt sensual when I picked them out, a nice little change from the standard cotton percale we had now.

As I fluffed the last pillow, I heard the apartment door opening. Confused, I glanced at the clock. The red numbers glowed 2:15, and Asher didn’t normally get home until 5:30. Asher’s voice echoed through the loft, and I started to answer when I realized he wasn’t talking to me.

“Dude, that last video was smokin’! When’s the next one?” I recognized the voice of Jameson, Asher’s best friend. I bet Asher would ask him to be his best man. And then Jameson would walk Rue down the aisle. They’d look cute together. Maybe raspberry and black for wedding colors. What kind of flowers were raspberry? Not daisies. Lilies? Roses, maybe?

I tuned out the sound of Jameson and Asher talking, lost in my wedding fantasy, until one of them saying my name snagged my attention. “… Sadie still has no idea?” Jameson talking again. How cute, they didn’t think I knew about the ring. I rolled my eyes. Guys were so dumb. Like I hadn’t figured out that was coming. Asher had been extra sweet and affectionate lately, and the sex had been steamier than usual. Plus, we’d been together, officially, for three years now. Time to start thinking about settling down.

Asher scoffed. “Hell, no. And after I propose, can you imagine the footage from that night?”

“Think you’ll be able to get her to do some new positions?”

“I think she’ll do anything I ask her to after I put that giant rock on her finger.” The smugness in Asher’s voice had a vulgar, calculated tone I wasn’t used to.

Positions?

Footage?

Crinkling my brow, I crept closer to the bedroom door. Jameson’s slightly nasal reply — why had I not noticed how grating his voice was before? — mixed with the dust motes floating in the air. “What about Rebecca? When’s the next one with her?”

Rebecca?

My head snapped back. Rebecca was my photography assistant, a cute junior from the local community college I’d hired a year ago when she’d needed a job to help with tuition.

One of them snorted. “You know as soon as I make her my fiancée, she’ll be dying to take a trip down to Reynold’s Island to show off the ring to Rue. I’ll set it up for then. Probably before New Year’s if I’m lucky.”

“You’re a fucking bastard, Ash.” Jameson made it sound like a compliment. “You plan on keeping it up after you’re engaged?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno. Don’t you think it’s a little different if you do it after you pop the question?”