“On it,” he told her. “I’ll do that and then I have to make a call.”
“Right,” she said to the mirror, so preoccupied with her hair, she didn’t ask him what call he had to make.
He registered that thought but set it aside and moved to the bed.
And he heard her say from the loo, “And don’t pick the sexy one you want to fuck me in.”
That made him chuckle.
He didn’t even really look at the two outfits. They were both gorgeous. Both classy. And she’d look fantastic in either of them.
But he picked the ivory satin set with the sleeveless top that had a very high neck with a twist at the side that created some gathers across her chest, and it turned in at a bottom that was high so it’d expose some skin at her middle. This had matching trousers with deep pleats and a thin rope belt that cinched a paper bag-looking waistband.
Right, so he picked that because it would cling to her, it was sexier, and the gold heels she had on the floor under where she’d set it out were fuck-me shoes.
But it was still stylish and more her than the conservative dress laid out beside it.
He put the dress away and took his phone with him as he moved toward the door of the bedroom, saying to Blake, “All sorted.”
She had her hair down again but was bunching it up when he passed. “Thanks, honey.”
The hair thing made him halt.
“Stop fretting,” he ordered. “She’s going to like ye.”
She turned to him and the anxiety was no longer hidden.
Bloody hell.
His sweet girl.
He went to her, kissed her nose, her forehead, then her mouth before he pulled back a wee bit and reiterated, “She’s going to like ye.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
He winked at her and walked out.
He jogged down the steps of Helena’s—no, Blake’s—Belgravia townhome.
This place seemed more Blake than the stodgy, lived-in, but still attractive Treverton. It was all feminine, pale colors, mixed with creams and ivories, and it was more modern, elegant and sophisticated.
He moved into the lounge on the first floor (she couldn’t hand him shite about his townhouse now, seeing as the bedrooms in this one were on the second floor too), which was just all creams and ivories. Once there, he went to the French doors that led out to a narrow balcony.
He made his call and looked out the windows at the park across the street.
His father answered after one ring.
“Dair.”
“Dad.”
“Where are ye?”
“London. I’ve a match to call tomorrow.”
“When are ye back in Edinburgh?”
He didn’t want to tell the man this, but to move things along, he said it anyway. “Sunday.”
