Hey, maybe I’m growing as a person—or—maybe it’s because I haven’t actually had Winter yet. Not in the biblical sense. Which is quite the alarming realization, isn’t it? I haven’t even had Winter, and I’m already obsessively thinking about her. Comparing her pussy to bouquets of flowers… I’m thinking about her pussy so much, I’m actually becoming one.

Either way, I have to push the thought from my mind before I go full-mast seconds before meeting the photographer.

Admittedly, Winter has grown on me. She doesn’t deserve my usual detached treatment, even if I am honest and upfront about my intentions. And even if I was willing to break my no repeat rule for her, this will have to end the minute the wedding is over, anyway. Which is why I had little else to say when she said we were done.

No skin off my ass. I’ll just have to distract my dick long enough to get through this wedding. I’ll stand behind our agreement of no women in the suite because I never slide back on a deal, but this is a big resort and I’m not above exhibitionism—as long as it’s healthy and consensual.

“Maybe they’re outside. The Veranda is so beautiful. Of course, maybe not smothered in all this pink.” Winter crinkles her cute little nose.

“What would your wedding look like?” I ask as we weave slowly through the tables, making our way to the Veranda.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever get married, but certainly not this.”

Curiosity gets the best of me. “Why won’t you ever get married?”

Is it because your ex proved what you should have already known; humans are shit and you should trust no one?

“Um, I don’t know.” She gives me a glimpse of those doe eyes over her shoulder. “Maybe because humans are shit.”

Ha! Winter Sommers, get out of my head, you cute little vixen. If she didn’t keep me suspended in a constant state of rage induced coma, I might think she was my soulmate. Too bad the former is true.

Winter pushes the French doors open to the Veranda and steps out into a scene as hideous as the one inside. Pink fabrics draped over every chair, wrapped around every pillar holding giant vases of Winter’s pussy flowers. And the pergola—holy shit, the pergola—every inch has been wrapped in dark and light pink tulle.

My mother—the retired interior designer—would have this place demolished on sight.

“Mr. Fox, Miss Sommers, thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I’m Victoria West. This lighting check will be quick and painless.”

The tall slender woman with grayish blonde hair braided down to her knees must be our photographer. Their photographer! Preston and Sondra’s photographer. Fuck me, I’d kick myself in the dick if I could.

“I know Miss Bose’s colors differ vastly, so please try to see past it. I asked you here because we’re setting up exactly like this for her wedding, unless you think she’d prefer a different view.”