I stared down at the bundle, muttering, “Um…”
“Add it,” Walker rumbled and my head jerked back and to the side to look up at him.
“You don’t –” I started.
His eyes tipped down to me. I shut up.
“All righty, lovebirds,” the woman chirped.
“Photo,” Walker stated and I looked from him to the now beaming woman.
“Five by seven or eight by ten?” she asked.
“Two. Of both,” he answered.
“No problem,” she stated. “Anything else? Confetti?” She did the game show thing with her arm again, indicating the boxes of confetti behind her but eyeing my dress. “We got pink.”
“No,” Walker said firmly, she bit her lip and I waded in.
“My man isn’t a confetti type of guy.”
And this I knew to be true. Earlier, he’d returned to our hotel room while I was in the bathroom getting gussied up for the big event. When I came out, he barely looked at me even though I was coiffed, made up and had the dress on (but my feet were bare) before he passed me and went into the bathroom saying, “Delivery will come. Accept it. Tip. The boxes on the bed are for you.” Then he disappeared in the bathroom.
No, “Honey, you look fabulous,” which I wasn’t expecting but his eyes didn’t even flare. Nothing. My dress was fantastic, it fit like it was made for me, it was sexy yet elegant and my hair had totally behaved for once and it looked amazing, all this but nothing from Ty Walker. I could have been wearing a potato sack.
So definitely not a confetti guy. I was surprised he wanted pictures.
After he went into the bathroom, I’d gone to the boxes on the bed but the minute I spied them, my step had gone hesitant.
That was because the boxes on the bed were a very distinctive color and they were tied by white, satin ribbons. And there were four of them.
I’d sat on the bed and slowly opened the first one, finding it hard to breathe.
It was a set of earrings. Diamonds clustered in the shape of a flower. Gorgeous. Not huge. The sparkle and setting saying it all. The fact that the post was screw in laying testimony to how expensive they were. They were not earrings you’d want to lose because the doohickey fell off the back.
The second box held a necklace, a delicate white gold chain on which was suspended a flower cluster of diamonds that matched the earrings. The pendant was larger than the earrings, eye-catching but not ostentatious.
The third, a diamond bracelet made up of the same flower clusters. It was extraordinary and it had to be at least five times as expensive as the earrings and necklace because it was all diamonds linked with thick, white gold links.
I put the first two in and on but couldn’t do the clasp on the bracelet one-handed because it was too complicated.
Then I turned to the last.
The last box I knew what it was by the size. And when I opened it, I saw I was right.
A diamond engagement ring, princess cut, stone not even close to small, white gold, the stone elevated, double rows on an open curve guiding up to it set with an array of much smaller diamonds but a whole lot of them.
I stared at it thinking that Ty Walker was not f**king around.
I held my breath as I slipped it on, lost my breath when it caught on my knuckle, deep breathed as I panicked that it would be too small then it slid over my knuckle and down where it sat at the base of my finger snugly. It wouldn’t ever fall off. Perfect fit.
“Shit,” I whispered, staring at the beautiful ring that looked really f**king great on my finger.
Then a knock came at the door. I jumped then hurried to the door to find a man stood there holding a hanger on which was a zipped-up suit holder and he was balancing four boxes in his other hand.
“One hour tailoring,” he announced.
There you go. In Vegas, you could get anything.