Roman
I need to strike the clause I added.
Deacon
You expect me to inherently remember what that was?
Roman
The one about Clover Daly not being cast in future films for the franchise. I want to strike it.
I grit my teeth as I await his response. Even typing out what I did feels fucking slimy.
Deacon
Meet me at my office on site next week to discuss.
Swallowing, I let the phone go dark. Naturally, he’s not going to make this easy, but I know I’ll do whatever I can to fix this. I have to. She deserves better.
How long does it take to put on a fucking dress and toss on a little makeup?
“Let’s go, we’re going to be late.” I give a few knocks on the bathroom door. If she doesn’t hurry up, I swear I’ll go in there and throw her over my shoulder.
“Coming!” The door swings open, and my breath catches.
Clover’s wearing a dress that fits as if it were made for her and only her. The white and blue fabric clings to her waist and flares out over her hips, showing off how incredible her body is. And fuck me—her breasts look like the perfect handful, and suddenly I’m jealous of the fabric for the privilege of touching her there. Her hair is styled in loose waves, and part is pinned back with a clip that has pearls on it, and she’s so beautiful it takes me a minute to remember to breathe.
As she bends down to adjust the strap on one of her sandals, she wobbles slightly. I offer an arm to help her, and I’m surprised when she actually takes it without giving me a snide remark.
We make our way down to the lobby, where we join up with a small group of other hotel guests for an intimate tour of the vineyard.
Clover listens intently as the guide leads us outside, telling us all about the climate and the grapes grown here. It goes in one ear and out the other, because I can’t think straight when she looks like that. She’s so beautiful right now that I’m having a hard time remembering that she’s ever pissed me off.
This dress is going to fucking wreck me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
CLOVER
If I catch Roman staring at me one more time, so help me God.
“What? Do I have something on my dress?” I finally ask when we’re out of hearing distance from the rest of the group.
Roman shakes his head slowly, almost looking pained.
“Okay, well what’s wrong with it?” Self-consciousness spreads like wildfire through my system.
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” he says as his eyes rake over me.
“Roman Everett, are you saying I look good?”
I expect him to banter with me, but his eyes darken. “I am.”
I don’t know what to do with that answer, and it’s making my brain short-circuit. “Cut that out.”
“What?”
“Your being anything aside from a dick makes me suspicious.”
