"My wedding dress. I had it sent to the dry cleaner, and all the trim has been fixed, so–"
She gestures behind us. I turn around and take in her beautiful wedding gown hanging on the closet door. It's exquisite. It's long and delicate. The shoulders and arms are covered in intricate lace and the skirt is full, just like I would imagine for myself. "Oh, Grandma," I say. "Truly?"
"Of course, Angel. Oh, if your grandpa could see you now, about to be married. And to find out about such a joyous thing at Christmas. Oh, my darling. It makes me so happy for you."
She holds the dress up to me and I take it from her, realizing it's too heavy for her to lift on her own. I hold it up in front of the mirror and I can see myself in a dress like this.
But the funny thing is, the thing I can imagine best is wearing this dress and marrying Andrew in it.
CHAPTER 7
ANDREW
Considering the engagement is a fabrication, it sure feels fucking real. Angel is just that, a damn angel. The day happens way too fast. One minute, we're eating waffles and drinking coffee with her grandma, and the next we're taking photos in front of a crackling fire and a perfectly trimmed Christmas tree.
Angel beams, sitting beside her grandma. And it's not just that she has a model-worthy smile. It's that the love in the room lights up the camera frame more perfectly than anything I've ever captured before. There's true love in this room, and it's not some sexual tension I'm talking about. It’s the kind of love that you only get with a family.
Throughout the rest of the day, I do some chores around the house, like any gentleman would do. I take out the trash. I fix a leaky faucet. I shovel the driveway and the steps. Angel sits with her grandma watching her knit. And I see Angel doing the dishes, prepping the meal for dinner. When her grandma takes a rest in the afternoon, Angel sweeps, then dusts the mantel place. She doesn't stop working, even though I know she's got to be just as exhausted as I am.
We've had a long-ass night and day, but she's using this time to care for her grandmother. It shows me that there's a depth to Angel that I knew, but now I'm seeing in a different way, a deeper way. It hints at an understanding of what truly matters in life. Taking care of your family.
I stop in the kitchen once I’m finished shoveling the driveway, and she sets out a cup of coffee for me. "I thought you might need a little afternoon pick-me-up."
"Thanks," I say, covering a yawn. "I appreciate it."
"It's you I appreciate," she says. She takes a sip of her own coffee, looking at the clock on the microwave. "It's four o'clock," she says. "Are you as exhausted as I am?"
I nod. "Yeah, I'm already thinking about bed."
She licks her lips, then looks me up and down. "Me too," she says.
I clear my throat at that, and then we hear her grandma walking down the stairs.
Angel immediately steps away from the kitchen counter, and I wonder if I should read into her words or not… if she's thinking about the night ahead in the same way I am, dreaming about it or longing for it to be something more than just sleep.
Because damn, what I long for, what I truly want is Angel's body pressed against mine, her mouth finding mine once more in the dark with the door closed, alone.
Fuck, I want this woman. I want her in ways that aren't mine to be had. I want her up and down. I want her forever. I want to do more than put a ring on that finger. I want to fill her pussy with my cock, and then some.
But I got to get those thoughts right out of my mind, because right now she and her grandma are walking back in that kitchen, and they're talking about something involving Christmas presents.
And I got to do my best to smile and be a gentleman and not think about the hard on I've got.
I sit on a stool at the kitchen counter, concealing my thick dick. Angel is telling me what she's planning on making for dinner.
"The roast is in the oven," she says, "and the mashed potatoes are boiling. Do you like green beans?"
I nod. "I'm simple when it comes to eating. I like everything."
Her grandma smiles.
"That's just how my Arnold was," she tells me. "He was not a picky eater."
Angel smiles. "What's your dad like?" she asks me.
"He's the same way. My mom loves to fuss in the kitchen though. And there's a few things my dad refuses. He can't stand beets no matter how my mom makes them."