Etienne
She stood in frontof the mirror in her bedroom, holding up a third outfit against her body.
"No," she muttered, tossing it onto the bed with the others. "Too casual."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her. She'd been at this for twenty minutes, and the pile of rejected clothes had grown into a small mountain.
"Princesse, you could wear a bin bag and still look beautiful."
She shot me a look over her shoulder. "That's not helpful."
"It's true."
She picked up a navy dress, considered it, then dropped it back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling in waves down her back. She wore leggings and one of my training shirts, the fabric hanging off her shoulder.
Mine.
The thought hit me hard, possessive and primal. My shirt. My scent. My omega.
Except she wasn't. Not really, at least, not yet.
"What about this?" She held up a cream jumper and dark jeans.
"Perfect."
"You said that about the last three outfits."
"Because they were all perfect."
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it, grinning.
"You're impossible," she said, but there was no heat in it.
She disappeared into the ensuite to change, and I pulled out my phone. The match started in two hours. We needed to leave soon, but I wanted her to feel comfortable and confident.
She emerged a few minutes later, dressed in a jumper and jeans. She'd added the navy coat she'd bought yesterday, the one that made her eyes look impossibly blue.
"Better?" she asked.
"You look amazing."
She rolled her eyes, but a flush creeped up her neck.
An idea struck me.
"Wait here."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Hastings. He answered on the third ring, his voice tight with irritation.
"This better be important. We're over the Atlantic."
"It is. I need you and Fritz."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just want to show you something."
I switched to a video call. Hastings' face filled the screen, gray eyes narrowed. Behind him, the interior of the private jet, all leather and polished wood.
