Baby, sorry.Looks like I’ll be stuck late with prep for tomorrow morning’s hearing.
Rain check for tonight?
That’s not good.Whether it’s my hormones boiling over or Alan screwing with my head, one thing’s for sure, I need Laird’s hands roaming over me now, releasing these sinful urges.Even that skin-colored G-string from earlier is proof of how wet I’ve been.
Me:
That sucks.Can I swing by the office and bring you dinner?
While I wait for his reply I step out of the dressing room and nearly run into Alan, who’s talking with Martha and Jessy.He’s in a sharp black suit now, every inch covered, no skin left on display to drool over.My eyes, without permission, dart to the bulge in his pants.No hard outline anymore, he must’ve tamped it down.God, I don’t even want to picture if he jerked off in the bathroom to get rid of it.
My phone dings.A new text from Laird.Alan notices the sound, turns, and locks eyes with me.Heat crawls up my neck as I look down.
Laird:
You’re an angel.
Come whenever.
Relief floods me.I head toward Martha and clear my throat.
“Hey, Fenella.Thank you for today, you killed it,” she beams, hugging me quickly.
“Thanks, Martha.”
We chat for a while, keeping the conversation lively.I steal glances at Alan, and from the corner of my eye I can tell he’s watching me back, that wide smile like he’s in on a private joke.After we wrap, I say goodbye to Martha and walk off with Jessy, picking up the pace to put distance between me and Alan.
“Fenella!Hold up,” Alan calls just as we’re about to slide into the car.
I frown.“What now?”
“I got something for you.Wait here.”
He jogs to his black SUV, pops the trunk, and hauls out a stack of shopping bags.He crosses back and practically dumps them into our hands.
“This is for you,” he says, breathless and still smiling like he knows how dramatic this looks.
I peek inside with Jessy leaning over, a shoebox stamped Oscar de Ragetti, a Jemima-labeled clothes box, Baumer dresses, Muses perfume, more boxes, more brands.
“Ooh la la, that pile’s easily worth five grand,” Jessy whistles.
“Gifts,” Alan says, flashing that grin.
“From who?”I ask.
“From your clients.Oh, and Mallory sent this.”He pulls a tiny velvet box from his pocket and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”I ask, brows knitting.
“A signature bracelet.”
He flips the lid.Inside is a white-gold bracelet with little charms stamped with Mallory West’s logo, exclusive and custom, the kind Mallory gives her inner circle.It’s not just expensive, it’s status.
“Oh my God, I can’t accept this.”My jaw drops.
“You have to.Look, your name’s on it.”He shows me the engraving,Fenella Baxter.
“What the hell is this about, Alan?Bribing me so I won’t quit?”I snap.
