“Not tonight,” I say. “Tonight, in this jacket? You’re the King of New York.”
Luke’s gaze drops to my lips. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to grab me.
“Preston,” he warns. “We’re in public.”
“Giovanni has seen worse,” I say. “Ask him about Max and the hem tape.”
Luke lets out a huff of laughter. He leans down. His forehead rests against mine.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For doing this. For… seeing me.”
“I always see you, Luke. Even in the white polyester nightmare. I just prefer you in this.”
I step back before I do something reckless, like unzip his pants in a place of business.
“We’ll take it,” I call out to the empty shop. “And throw in the pants. And a shirt that doesnothave ruffles.”
Giovanni pops his head out from the back, grinning.
“Excellent choice,” he says. “I will put it on your father’s account?”
I grin at Luke.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Put it under ‘Medical Supplies.’ He won’t verify it.”
Luke shakes his head, looking at himself in the mirror. He straightens the cuffs I just buttoned. He looks at the reflection of me standing behind him.
He smiles.
And for the first time, he doesn't look like the scholarship kid. He looks like a man who is ready for war.
“Okay,” Luke says. “Let’s go crash a party.”
PRESTON
The St. Jude’s Spring Gala is not a party. It is a hostile environment with an open bar.
I am standing in the foyer, conducting a final gearcheck on Luke.
“Stop moving,” I hiss. “You are vibrating. It’s ruining the silhouette.”
“I’m not vibrating,” Luke says through gritted teeth. “I’m recoiling. A woman just asked me if I was the ‘entertainment.’ She thought I was a magician, Preston. Because of the velvet.”
“Youarea magician,” I correct, smoothing his shoulder. “You made my father buy a fruit basket. Now, chin up. Shoulders back. Maintain situational awareness.”
“Situational awareness?” Luke asks. “Preston, we’re at a fundraiser, not a landing zone.”
“It’s a target-rich environment, Luke,” I say, quoting theBook of Jax. “Hostiles are everywhere. The dress code is black tie, but the rules of engagement are guerrilla warfare. Now, let’s move out.”
I grab his hand. His grip is tight.
“I bought you a jacket that makes you look like a sexy vampire prince,” I whisper. “It’s excellent camouflage. Let’s go.”
We breach the perimeter (the double doors).
The ballroom is a sea of penguins and gowns that cost more than a Honda Civic. As we step onto the carpet, the roar of gossip dips. Heads turn. Luke Silva in midnight blue velvet is a flash-bang in a dark room.
“Contact front,” a familiar voice draws over the noise.
