She’s still holding the red dress. I can tell she likes it.
“Put it on,” I say.
She disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the soft thump of her bare feet on tile. Before long she walks out, her eyes on the floor and I struggle to keep my composure.
It fits perfectly.
She stands in front of the full length mirror, twisting side to side, checking the hem, the neckline, the way it hugs her waist. She doesn’t see me watching, or pretends not to.
I finish my second protein bar and grab the phone and call Bam. He answers on the second ring, voice still gravel from last night’s drinking.
“Did you get the invite?” I ask.
He grunts. “Yeah. All of us did. Even the girls. This some new thing?”
“Looks like it.”
He chews the line, thinking. “You bringing Eve?”
“Obviously.”
“Good. Dahlia wants to meet her. And Isolde is making noise about a girl’s table.”
I make a sound that could be a laugh, or could be disgust. “What about Julian?”
“Not coming. No Hunt yet, no seat.”
“Figures. See you at eight.”
I hang up.
Eve is at the desk, painting her nails with a sharpie. She’s got the cap in her teeth and the pen in her left hand. She’s doing it black, striping each nail like a barcode.
Her way of rebelling.
I watch her for a minute then grab a shirt and head to the kitchen to iron it on the table with a towel underneath.Always look unapproachable.The iron is older than me, probably older than this building. I like the weight of it in my hand, the way it hisses against the fabric.
Eve follows me out and watches for a moment. “You can’t iron a shirt with no pants on,” she says.
“You like the view, don’t play,” I reply.
She laughs, this time real. Once I’m done, I head back to my room to find black pants and start getting ready. It’s a few hours away, but knowing the expectations, we will need to arrive early to ‘mingle.’
Plus, I want to get head in the back of the limo.
I’m just a man, after all.
She heads back to the closet, pulls down one of the shoe boxes, and sits on the edge of the bed to try them on. She picks a pair of black flats, no heel, nothing fancy.
She stands, walks the length of the room, then turns. “Are you going to tie my hair for me?”
“Sure.”
I sit on the bed behind her, comb her hair with my fingers, then pull it tight in a high pony. I use the band from her braid, loop it twice. Her hair is heavy, and smells amazing. I want to wrap it around my hand and pull, to tip her head back and smother her in my desire for her.
But we can’t.
She doesn’t thank me. She shouldn’t. This is what I’m here for.
