He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates his face.
"Nine forty-seven."
I groan.
"I need to get up." I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist. "I'm meeting my mother at the shopping center in two hours. We're searching the boutiques for my dress."
"For the gala tomorrow."
"Yes."
He sits up beside me. The sheet falls to his hips, revealing the hard planes of his chest. The scars that map his skin. The tattoos that tell stories I'm only beginning to understand.
"I would go with you." His hand finds my thigh under the sheet. Squeezes. "But I have business today that cannot wait."
"It's fine." I cover his hand with mine. "Shopping with my mother is torture enough without adding you to the mix."
His lips twitch.
Almost a smile.
"Before you go." He reaches for something on the nightstand. A black card appears between his fingers. "Take this."
I stare at it.
"What is that?"
"My credit card." He presses it into my palm. "You will use it to pay for whatever you need. The dress. Shoes. Jewelry. Everything."
I laugh.
The sound echoes through the room. Bright. Incredulous.
"I'm not taking your credit card."
"You are."
"Dmitri." I try to hand it back to him. "I have my own money. I don't need?—"
His hand wraps around my wrist.
His grip is firm. Not painful. But unyielding.
"I am not joking."
His voice has changed.
The playful edge is gone.
"From this moment forward," he continues, his eyes boring into mine, "you do not buy anything with your money. Not a dress. Not a coffee. Not a bottle of water."
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
"That's ridiculous."
