“What’s all of this?” I ask, glaring at all the dresses and wispy shirts in my arms. “I thought we were here for practical things?”
“Oh, I already pulled those,” Mary-Kate says. “The shoes you’ll still have to try on, but I wanted to get started with the fun stuff.”
Fun stuff? This is not what I came for. But when Mary-Kate hands me a glass of bubbly and forces me behind a lace curtain, I don’t dare protest.
I take a sip of champagne and decide to try on the red dress first.
the man who saw too much
DUKE
I’ve beenin war zones that were less tense than this damn boutique fitting room waiting area. Jameson’s flopped at my boots, completely unbothered while I sit in a pink tufted chair that looks like it belongs in a dollhouse. I’m trying not to focus on the fact that Roxanne Denning is on the other side of a flimsy curtain, slipping in and out of her clothes.
Each time a garment hits the floor around her bare feet, my brain short-circuits. Deep down, I wish I was the one peeling them off her.
Damn it. If I had only not brushed against her thigh as I reached to adjust the AC in the truck. That small moment sparked something in my chest. Something hot, heavy, and reckless. I don’t even know this woman, but the way she stilled for that half-second … the way her breath caught.
I know she felt something from my touch too. I shake my head, guzzle some beer, and try to silence these thoughts.
The curtain swishes open and she steps out in a red dress. Not the deep, classic kind of red, but fire engine, siren-blaring, you-have-been-warned red. It hugs her curves perfectly, and the dresshas these skinny little spaghetti straps that barely cling to her shoulders. Her hair’s down and her scar, jagged and raw, runs down her arm, fully visible.
Roxanne turns to check her reflection, and her hair shifts over one shoulder. She does this little half-spin, then stops, staring at her own reflection like she doesn’t quite believe what she sees. Neither do I. Breasts that defy gravity, her sun-kissed skin …
My mouth’s gone dry. My palms are sweating. And yeah, there’s a situation in my pants I’d rather not deal with in Mary-Kate’s aggressively feminine half of the boutique. Shifting in my seat doesn’t help.
“So? What do you think?” Roxanne asks, turning to me, her arms spread wide.
Lord, have mercy on my damn soul.
I blink and drag my eyes to something safer, Jameson licking his butt.
“Looks fine,” I scrape out.
She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Justfine?”
I rub the back of my neck and clear my throat, trying to pull myself together before she notices how rattled I am. “If you walk into the lodge wearing that, someone is going to pull the fire alarm.”
She laughs, soft and lilting, and it hits me in the chest harder than I expect. I decide right then and there that I want her, which is the most dangerous thing I can feel. I take several pulls of my beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Mary-Kate appears like a fashion fairy godmother and claps her hands together. “I told you that color was made for you! You’re a walking firecracker, honey.”
Roxanne smiles and her freshly blushed skin absolutely wrecks me. Because it’s not the dress, or the curves, or the heat simmering low in my gut, it’s that she’s standing there, proud andunhidden. It’s like the scar she used to hide is now part of her power. She’s a beautiful sight to behold.
Too beautiful.
I need some fresh air before I flatline near the leather handbags. “Uh, going to walk Jameson around a bit. He needs to stretch his legs.”
Mary-Kate and Roxanne collectively furrow their brows as their eyes cut to Jameson, who is on his back now, snoring, his tongue hitting the floor.
I stand and Mary-Kate’s eyes widen. “Looks like somethingelseis out for a stretch.”
“I’ll be outside on the bench.” I polish off the rest of my beer and take my own shopping bag full of clothing Mary-Kate gathered for me before heading out the door.
Not even a gentle tug on Jameson’s leash inspires him to move so I get him settled in the truck with the window down. After grabbing my beat-up copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristofrom the truck, I collapse onto the weathered bench.
I came out here to breathe and distract myself with a 19th-century betrayal and revenge plot, but I’m on the same paragraph for the third time. Thirty minutes later, the door creaks open and I hear a rustle of shopping bags along with Mary-Kate telling Roxanne to come back anytime. I don’t look up because I’m not prepared for what new body-skimming garment she might be wearing. If she still has that red dress on, I’m heading for the damn hills.
“Are you seriously out here reading?” she says, voice lighter than I’ve heard it all day.
