It dawns on me that Russell isrich, rich. Maybe not rich enough to single-handedly fund that clinic downtown, but obviously this little stunt is within his means. It makes my blood feel fizzy, like I’ve woken up the morning of a field trip.
What would it be like to have money like that? To never puzzle out which bills to pay and which to put off for the month? To not worry over what the cost of a surgery might do to your savings?
“Buckle up,” Ettie says, reaching over me and pulling my seatbelt on, winking at me when she pulls back. “I’m pretty sure Dr. Burch considers you to be precious cargo.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say, still too stunned to form any longer of a sentence.
“You want my advice?” Ettie says, gleefully pouring me a glass of champagne from the bottle in the back of the car. Taking her own, she clinks it against mine and takes a long sip, before catching my eye again, “Thisisfucking crazy, Jules. So, you’d better sit back andenjoyit.”
Chapter 13
Russell
It’s going to be a bitch to keep my hands to myself tonight. I stand outside the hotel, waiting for her car to pull up.
The moment I see Jules step out of the car, I want to touch her. To run my hand over the soft curve of her hip, to tuck my hand against the small of her back. Graze the tips of her hair with my fingertips, tuck my thumb into the spot under her throat.
It’s going to be torture to try, so I decide I don’t have to keep themcompletelyto myself.
When she steps up beside me, I say, low enough that none of the people around us can hear, “I’ll need to touch you, somewhat. For appearances. That okay?”
Jules nods, once, and if I thought she looked gorgeous in her apartment, wearing the Oscar the Grouch pajamas…
Now, she’s wearing a soft, shimmering gold dress that bunches up around her hips and falls over her body like a gentle glittering honey. Her hair is half-up, swept back from her pretty face but still falling loosely around her shoulders. The makeup people did a great job, accentuating her best features—the apples of her cheeks, those bright eyes. Her lips aren’t glossy, but matte, which contrasts with the opalescence of the dress.
It makes me want to kiss the color right off them.
She was beautiful at her apartment. Supple, touchable, and vulnerable. Now, she’s gorgeous in a different way—garnished, teased, and gilded. Just as touchable, but in the way you reach your hand up into the sunlight, wanting to feel the warmth on your skin.
“Of course,” she says, and, to my surprise, she slots right into my side. As naturally as if it’s something we do every day. Like a real couple might stand, familiar with each other’s bodies.
I’m not, though. Familiar with her body. The press of her against my side, even just hip-to-hip like this—it’s distracting. Filling my mind with images of several other things I’d rather be doing right now, other than walking into the cavernous ballroom, surrounded by the glitz and glamor of Chicago’s wealthiest and most boring inhabitants.
“Wow,” Jules gasps, her head tipping up when we enter, and I remember that this hasn’t always been her life. When you grow up with a surgeon and philanthropist as a father, galas, and charity events, your typical weekend fare, you find yourself growing numb to the painted ceilings and soaring windows. Now, I tip my head up to see what she’s seeing—dozens and dozens of chandeliers glowing with candles. A fire hazard, but it strikes the right chord. Cozy and warm, pretty in the way that only Christmas can be. Both fresh and comfortable at once. Like sinking into a brand-new armchair.
When I glance back at Jules, she’s still taking the place in. I want to incite that expression on her face more. Want to take her to every fancy place in Chicago—in the world—if it means she’ll keep looking around like that.
Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around her waist and pull her closer to me, dropping my lips to her ear, “Did you like your surprise?”
She glances at me, that sharp, disapproving gleam to her eyes, “You mean, the pseudo-kidnapping?”
As we talk, we move through the party together, speaking in low voices, occasionally smiling at other people, and taking champagne from trays. It gives me a strange sense of deja vu.
“Most women would be happy to be kidnapped like that.”
“I’m not into dark romance,” she says, but something about the tilt of her head tells me that’s not entirely true.
“Really?” I ask, letting my lips linger a little too long on the spot just before her ear, “You’re not into shopping the Gold Coast with your best friend? Not into having beef wellington for lunch and sipping the finest wine at the bar after?”
Jules pulls back, eying me, the corner of her lip quirking, “Were you spying on me?”
I shrug, averting my gaze so she doesn’t see how pleased I am, “Buddy of mine owns the place. Wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”
“Well, I was,” she says, some of the playful tone dropping from her voice, replaced with something stern. I wonder if I’m getting a taste of what Gus might get when Jules is unhappy with him. “It was too much, Russell. I appreciate it, but now I have this dress, and I can wear it to the others?—”
“It’s not about you,” I say, dropping my voice and resisting the urge to lower my lips down to her shoulder, which is bare and shining under the soft, flickering candlelight. Skin so soft, so smooth, begging to be kissed. I could plant my lips there if I was behind her, a hand in her hair, pulling her hips flush against mine?—
“Oh,really?” she asks, slightly breathless, as though my fantasy projected right into her head. If it did, would she like what she saw?
