Falling Sky (24 page)

Dylan disappears around the corner and the sound of shells shuffling reaches me. Shells. Of course, he wants to add the one he’s searched for all morning to the childhood treasure. I huff and go to help; the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get inside.

Between us, we locate the biscuit tin easily, although the damp shells and sand aren’t pleasant. “You’re in charge of the treasure, here,” says Dylan, kneeling as he passes me his treasure. “Don’t break the shell this time.”

I look at the box, embarrassed I told him about breaking the last shell he hid in the box, even though it was thirteen years ago. “Okay.”

The
lid snaps open easily and inside sit three shells, symbols of my happy childhood hidden away. About to place the one he gave me into the box, my stomach lurches. There’s a ring in the box, a gold band with a huge diamond set in the middle. In surprise, I drop the box and the ring falls out.

“Shit! Sorry!” I scrabble through the shells, but each
one I move sends the ring further down into the pile. I can’t look at Dylan, stunned by what I’ve seen and what I know is coming.

Dylan stops my useless scrabbling, catching my hand and delving into the pile himself. He pulls out the ring and looks to me with a mix of apprehension and the expression I’ve seen on his face time after time when he’s with me. Love. I stare back like an idiot, fighting back the mounting tears.

“Do you remember in June when I said I wish we could stay here forever?”

I nod
, no words will come.

“I know we can’t stay here forever, but I want you to always be my summer Sky.” He opens his hand, the large ring looking smaller in his large palm. “Will you marry me?”

The realisation exactly how much this man loves me takes hold of my heart and threatens to push it out of my chest. I can’t speak, so I attempt to smile to indicate I’m happy. The increasingly anxious line between Dylan’s brows prompts me to answer. I’m not sure he hears my ‘yes’, a cross between a gasp and a choke which realistically could sound like anything.

Dylan curls his hand around mine and kisses my fingers. I choke back a sob and he frowns at me. “You know I hate making you cry. I wouldn’t have done this if I’d known.”

I shake my head and touch his cheek. “I love you, Dylan, and I want us to be forever. Of course, I’ll marry you!”

His stiffened shoulders relax. “Oh, thank fuck for that.” His eyes glint. “Because you know I’m not used to people saying no to me.”

The wind chills the drying tears on my face, but my hot cheeks and the intensity melt any attempt to freeze this moment. I rest my head against Dylan’s, and curl my fingers into the back of his hair. “I thought you were getting used to me saying no? Because you won’t be getting honour and obey from me.”

Dylan laughs, seizes my hands in both cheeks and plants a hard kiss on my mouth. “And that, summer Sky, is why I love you.”

Gently, he takes my hand and pulls off my black woollen glove. His eyes shine with the happy, big-kid Dylan look that warmed me to him months ago. “Do I get to put the ring on your finger? Like in the movies?”

I stretch my fingers out, my hand trembling as he pushes the ring onto my finger.

We never spoke about this, but we're here. Some say fate is written in the stars, and that we’re all made of pieces of the universe. If that’s true, what I have with Dylan makes sense. Our stars exploded long ago, the debris scattering across time. When we met the pieces pulled together, tiny fragments missing from our hearts and souls found their place. This has to be how the idea of soul mates exists, reconnecting pieces settling into each other and taking on the new world together.

Dylan’s mouth touches mine, dragging me from my thoughts. I feel the connection in his lips, on his fingertips, and the way the space between us doesn’t exist when we’re together. Marrying each other to become one makes no sense, because we already are.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Sky

The usually manicured and empty grounds of the Malibu mansion are covered as a marquee the size of a house stretches across the lawn. The canvas monstrosity blocks the usual views of the ocean, but the guests will enjoy the spectacular and exclusive vistas. A red carpet extends from the steps outside the front of the white-painted house, along several hundred metres toward the carefully arranged and dressed rows of chairs. A gazebo decorated in pink roses is the final destination of the carpet.

Dressing in the guest room, I watch the army of wedding creators assemble the spectacle before me.

Honey’s voice shrieks somewhere down the hallway and I cringe. All that woman has done today is scream at people. I happened to be with Honey when the wrong colour ribbon adorned the placements for the wedding tables, sending a terrified and apologetic man scurrying away to replace his hideous mistake.

Talk about
Bridezilla.

Honey arranged hair and make-up artists for all the guests, but I told mine I wasn’t interested. Thank God, Honey and I never became friendly enough for me to warrant invitation as a bridesmaid; the perfection required of those clones is impossible. I was instructed what
colour to wear as I apparently needed to make sure I co-ordinated in the official photographs, which unfortunately, I must feature in, due to my engagement to Dylan Morgan.

Following our engagement, persuading Dylan to keep the news quiet failed. After initial sulking about his lack of thinking, and an argument about the amount of press he brought to the door, I accep
ted we had to ride the crazy train after the announcement. Dylan reluctantly retreated to his house in LA while I stayed in Bristol a few more days, putting the finishing touches to leaving the grotty flat behind forever. Leaving when Tara was still very sick worried me, but as if the stars were aligning, she improved in the week I was in Bristol alone and I finally spoke to her before I left. Dylan has promised he’ll pay for me to fly straight back if her condition worsens, and optimistic that she won’t, I step further away from my old life and into Dylan’s and my new one.

The planned Dylan and Sky World Tour
is on pause until after Honey and Liam’s wedding. We’ve not made a decision on our wedding date yet; the last two months in LA we’ve lived like newlyweds anyway - bunkered down in his house as if we’re on a perpetual holiday. In the star struck state, going out places is slightly easier. We still find ourselves on entertainment TV the day after each trip and some days we feed them false stories to see how quickly they track around the internet. Then we giggle and plan the next trick. The Sky I am when I’m with Dylan is free, and every day, I appreciate how lucky I am to live this life with him; not only because of the luxury but because he’s Dylan - the star to my sky.

The California sun is sticky, and after a couple of months in LA with Dylan, I’m craving the cool English spring; although, I’d probably change my mind the moment my feet touched English soil. I step outside the room, carrying my too-high heels and smoothing down the buttermilk yellow dress. I still grit my teeth when expense is thrown in my direction, but sometimes the right opportunity comes along for a girl to play dress up. This dress was designed for and cut to suit me, pulled in at the waist and the soft silk floating to skim my knees. The dress is truly beautiful, cut the exact length to suit my legs, and a neckline revealing just enough but not too much of my décolletage (apparently that’s what I call my cleavage in Honey’s circle). Dylan bought me a simple necklace with a diamond to match the gorgeous ring he gave me. The ring to confirm my world will never go back to ordinary, and that broke a million girls’ hearts.

The screeching Honey trails down the hallway toward me. She’s dressed in a pink satin robe, and without her make-up and hair extensions, she looks ten years younger and ordinary. She stops dead as she casts a gaze at my ensemble.

“I said yellow!” she snaps.

“This is yellow.”

“It’s fucking cream! Why did you ignore me like that? Bad enough you get engaged to Dylan, and now everybody wants to know about your wedding instead!”

I blink at her as she continues her scrutiny. “Did Marsha do your make-up? Obviously not,” she huffs. “Make sure you stand behind someone in the photos!”

Sweeping past me, Honey yells for Marsha while I head for the door. What if Honey sends Marsha after me and I’m forcibly covered in make-up?

The back of the property faces away from today’s festivities. The long glass doors open onto an infinity pool. Dylan stands outside, talking to Jem. I’m surprised to see Jem, as he’s been in treatment for a few weeks. Coming to a wedding with enough alcohol to drown in will be a test of anyone’s attempt to stay dry, let alone a recovering addict.

Still carrying my shoes, I tread across the limestone pavers toward them.
Dylan in a suit. I sigh inwardly, remembering the last time I saw him in a suit; the first night he showed me the meaning of awesome sex, and the day I realised I could never be without him.

“Aren’t you warm?” I ask, sliding a hand along his firm backside.

He catches my hand and laces his fingers through. “Yeah, going in soon. Just chatting to Jem about… something.”

Hackles of suspicion rise and I study
Jem, whose eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. “Hey, summer Sky.”

“Hi,
Jem. How’re you doing?”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight to the other foot. “Congratulations, by the way. Nice rock.”

I curl my hand round the ring, as if each time I do, I’m holding Dylan’s heart. “Thanks.”

“I bet Honey was pissed off when she found out,” he says to Dylan. “Her wedding plans went full steam ahead once she
realised there wasn’t a chance with you?”

Is
Jem stirring?

“There was never a chance,
Jem.”

Jem
snorts. “And you, best man? Surely your betrothed should be chief bridesmaid.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “She can’t stand the sight of me. Anyone would think I deliberately got engaged to Dylan to piss her off and ruin her place as the only Blue Phoenix bride.”

Dylan laughs and kisses my hair. “As long as that isn’t the real reason you said yes.”

I ignore him.

“Where’s the lucky man?” asks Jem.

“Liam? With Bryn, I think. His last night of freedom saw him a bit worse for wear.”

“Wasn’t the only one,” I mutter, remembering a boozed up, horny Dylan creeping into bed with me suggesting all manner of depraved, but unfortunately arousing things.

Jem
doesn’t speak and I poke Dylan, hoping he realises how inconsiderate he’s being. Jem arrived this morning and missed Liam’s last night of freedom.

“Sorry,
Jem.”

“
S’okay. Wouldn’t have been a good move for me, eh?” An awkward silence hovers for a moment until Jem says,

“Anyway,
gonna go find Liam and wish him luck. He’s going to fucking need it.” Jem walks away before we respond.

“Have you’ve seen Liam today?” I ask Dylan.

“Me? No, too busy making myself look exactly the way Honey wants. What do you think?” He spreads his arms out and spins around.

“Okay, I know, you look hot in a suit, Dylan.”

He leans forward, breath tickling my ear. “Wrong. I look fucking hot in a suit.” I tense as he squeezes my rear. “And you look fucking hot too. Can we go somewhere? We’ve got time.”

I peel his hand from me. “You’ve got time later; I’m not doing my hair and make-up all over again.”

“Doesn’t have to be long or energetic,” he suggests, lifting a brow. This time he runs a finger along my collarbone and I catch his hand before he reaches any lower.

“Behave yourself.”

“Fuck, you turn me on.”

I can see the direction this is heading, in the exact same way Dylan’s mind is. A waitress arrives with a tray of drinks, and I take a sparkling water.

“Not champagne?” he asks, taking a water too.

“Not yet. I think this is going to be a long day.”

Inhaling, Dylan runs his hand across his head and neck, eyes zoning back onto my chest. “Yeah.”

I push him in the chest, and then perch on one of the wooden chairs, gazing out at the infinity pool. “How was Liam last night?”

“Liam? Drunk as a skunk.”

How do I ask Dylan if Liam is sure of what he’s doing? I know the rest of the band doesn’t like Honey much and they hoped this wouldn’t happen, but I hold the secret from Christmas.

“Are there many people from St Davids here?” I ask.

Dylan shrugs. “No idea, he doesn’t keep in touch with people from home either.
Myf’s around with Miles, but I think she’s keeping a low profile until later.”

Again, I bite my lip attempting not to spill something I shouldn’t. We arrived yesterday afternoon, my desire to spend time around Hell Bride minimal. Currently living at Dylan’s LA place, travel time is minimum, so there wasn’t any reason to come any earlier. I’d have preferred to arrive this morning, but Dylan had Liam’s bachelor party to attend. Liam greeted us briefly, and the fact he didn’t look me in the eyes, didn’t escape me.

I sit on the edge of the low wall and put my shoes on. Last night, I scrubbed my brain of any paranoid thoughts about what a rock star’s bucks’ night would look like. Dylan may have been wasted when he came back to our room, but his clothes were intact and he didn’t smell of anything but himself and alcohol.

“I hope he has a good lawyer,” I say to Dylan as we walk around the edge of the pool area toward the arriving guests.

Dylan puts his finger to my lips. “Shush, Sky! That’s not appropriate for a wedding.” He lowers his voice. “Even if I agree.”

“I’m serious; do you think she loves him?” The rose-petal strewn, red-carpeted aisle is out of bounds; instead, we wander along the edge to take our place close to the front. I perch on the chair, disentangling myself from the thick candy pink ribbons covering the back.

“Who knows?”

That’s a bit dismissive for a friend who could end up getting their heart ripped out. Or is he the one who’ll do that to Honey? I can’t stop picturing the woman in the shop and her little girl. Who are they? Is she at home watching the
internet the way I used to track Dylan?

The chairs around fill up with designer dressed guests and I’m relieved we’re at the front and tucked into a corner near a tree. Famous faces flash in and out of the crowd; actors and actresses I
recognise but never thought I’d meet. One or two cross to air kiss Dylan and angle for an introduction to me.

I shift down in my seat as yet another Hollywood celebrity wanders away. “Can we wait until I’ve had a drink before I talk to these people? My face is starting to hurt from false smiling.”

“Funny, Sky.” He kisses me gently then places a hand on my knee.

A minute later, the same hand is sneaking up my inner thigh; I grab it and dig my nails into the back. “Behave!”

Dylan shuffles out of his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. As he does, his scent washes over me, interrupting the anxiety of being in this place. Dylan gravity. It keeps me in place when I’m lost and holds me to him. He catches the look on my face and smoothes my hair. “You look beautiful, Sky.”

“I don’t fit.”

“Nobody here fits; they all just try. You and I, we fit each other. What the hell do they matter?”

I wrinkle my nose, taking on board his comments. “I’m not doing this, by the way. I’m running away with you when we get married.”

The topic of our marriage adds a shine to his eyes. “Good. And no pink. I hate pink.”

The amount of pink surrounding us makes a six-year-old girl’s ballerina themed bedroom seem dull. “I’m not a fluffy pink girl.”

“No, you’re definitely not. Any more thoughts about our wedding?” he asks, rubbing his finger across the ring. “I want soon.”

“And Dylan Morgan always gets what he wants?”

The hand sneaks back up my leg again, thumb brushing my inner thigh lightly enough to illicit a response. “Usually.”

“Oh, well, we should’ve gone for a
double-wedding then,” I say.

Dylan chokes back a laugh. “You and your
bestie? That would’ve been a sight!”

The photographers are in a row close by, snapping pictures of the guests as they arrive. One magazine secured exclusive rights to publish the event, for a price of course. Honey and Liam (well, Honey) get final say on which photos are used, so I’m not stressed about any pictures of us being taken; I doubt she’d allow any pictures of me to eclipse her moment.

“I’m not having all this either,” I say, waving my hand at the circus around us.

“Yes, you are.”

I stare at him, stiffening. “What?”

“You have to plan the most extravagant, Honey-eclipsing wedding you can and tell the world the date and place, book a better magazine for a higher price and get us on the front page of every newspaper.” Dylan’s voice is raised and I gape at him, unable to respond. In the row behind, I hear someone murmur something and I stiffen. Great.