KESTER.
"You still haven't told me what you were doing in that boutique, Kester," Kasmine asked for the hundredth time as we drove home.
I smirked, gripping the wheel with one hand while the other itched to reach for her. I was tempted—so damn tempted—to tell her. But no, it had to be a surprise. Probably when we've decided on a date, which I know could be a long time from now – say in two to three months – then she'd know that she didn't need to shop for a wedding dress and that I already had it taken care of.
I turned to steal another glance at her, and, heavens, she looked beautiful.
She didn't just look beautiful. She looked sinful... ruinous. Like something a man would walk willingly into disaster for.
The day had been about her—her hair, her nails, her skin—every detail fine-tun
