He rolls us both over so we’re lying on our sides, facing each other. “Tell me.”
I take a deep breath, wishing I could spill all of my real secrets.
My mother hates me.
Controls me.
Pretty sure she’s trying to kill me.
Instead, I say something else. Something inane and expected of the flighty, reckless Sylvie Lancaster.
“When I get married, I want to wear a red dress.”
I can feel him smile. That’s my favorite thing about Spence. When he’s happy, he lets the whole world know it. He doesn’t hide his emotions like I do.
“I don’t think your mother will approve.”
“That’s the point.” I lift my head, so I can look into his dark eyes. “I’d wear red to make her angry.”
“How about black?” He lifts a brow.
I shake my head. “She’d expect that. She’d probably even pretend to like it. Red though? She’d hate it. It’s one of her least favorite colors.”
“I never see you wear red.”
“Because of my mother.”
“She controls what you wear?”
She controls every single aspect of my life.
I don’t say that.
“I stumbled upon a photo one day on the internet. This beautiful blonde woman sitting on a chair surrounded by a group of debonair men all in morning dress. Proper coats and top hats and silver cravats. She was wearing a gorgeous, vivid red dress with a matching red veil. Clutching red roses and green ivy. Red roses in her hair. God, it was stunning.” I clamp my lips together to shut myself up. I’m rambling. And he doesn’t care. Not about stuff like this.
Especially wedding stuff. He’s sixteen. I’m fifteen. We are never getting married. I don’t even think I’ll make it to twenty.
“Who was the woman?” he asks after I remain quiet for at least a minute. “Getting married?”
“Some British woman who married a pop star in the mid-eighties. It doesn’t really matter who it was, it’s just—that dress. Someday, I’m going to get married, and I’m going to wear a replica of that gown,” I say fiercely.
“Even if your mother hates it?”
“Especially if she hates it.”
His fingers slip beneath my chin, tilting my face up so his mouth can settle on mine. The kiss steals my breath. Not because of its intensity, though that is unmistakably delicious.
There’s emotion there. A depth I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. The kiss is like a branding. An imprint on my soul. Dramatic and perfect and sweet and wonderful.
I could die happily after a kiss like this.
Spencer pulls away first, slowly. Almost reluctantly. He touches the corner of my mouth, his thumb a gentle brush against my skin, and I open my eyes to find him watching me, his dark gaze burning.
We’re young. I know we are, but I feel so much when he looks at me like that. As if I’m his everything.
“If we were to get married, I’d want you to wear a red dress.”
I laugh, needing to break the seriousness of the conversation. “We’re not going to get married.”