By the time I towel off and check the clock, it’s already 6:30.
Thirty minutes until dinner with a man who makes me forget how to breathe.
Time to figure out what the hell I’m going to wear.
I sort through the small pile of clothes on the duvet, pushing aside t-shirts and jeans, looking for anything that might pass as dinner-appropriate. My fingers close around a flash of yellow fabric at the bottom of the pile, and I pull it free.
The yellow dress is a mistake. I know it the moment I hold it against me. Too bright, too short, too tight across the hips now that I’ve lost that gym membership along with everything else. The fabric stretches uncomfortably across my body when I shimmy into it, a relic from a different life when I had places to go that required dresses instead of practical jeans and sensible shoes. But the jeans aren’t an option for dinner with a man like Caleb Asher. Even worn and faded, this dress is the only semi-professional thing I own.
I survey my options with a grimace. The yellow dress or jeans. Those are the choices. This is what rock bottom looks like: standing in a billionaire’s guest suite, trying to decide between clubwear and denim for a dinner that might determine whether or not I have a job tomorrow.
The dress is club-cut, bought two sizes ago when I was leaner, when I had money for drinks and dinners and didn’t count every penny. The hem hits mid-thigh, and the neckline dips lower than I remember. I tug at it uselessly. The fabric pulls across my hips in a way that makes me wince.
It was never appropriate for anything resembling a formal dinner. It is certainly not appropriate now.
I look at the jeans folded neatly on the bed. I look back at the dress hugging my body too tightly.
“Shit,” I mutter to the empty room. A formal dinner requires formal clothes. Clothes I don’t have anymore. Clothes I soldmonths ago when the choice was designer dresses or making rent.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:45. Ten minutes until Franklin comes to escort me downstairs.
I pull at the hem of the dress again. It doesn’t magically grow longer. Rude.
Maybe I can make it work. I dig through my bag for the black cardigan I know is in there somewhere. It’s worn at the elbows, but it might tone down the clubwear vibe of the dress.
The cardigan helps. A little. I look in the bathroom mirror again, twisting to see the back view. The dress still clings to every curve, but at least my arms are covered. I’d brought sensible flats, thank god, not the heels that would have made this outfit even more inappropriate.
I brush my hair until it shines, grateful I’d had time for a proper wash earlier. I splash water on my face, pat it dry with the softest towel I’ve ever felt, and apply the bare minimum of makeup from the zippered pouch in my bag. Mascara, a touch of blush, lip balm. It’s not much, but it has to do.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump. Franklin, right on time.
I take one last look in the mirror, straighten my shoulders, and open the door.
“Ms. Vance.” Franklin’s eyes flick over my outfit with professional detachment. If he notices it’s inappropriate, his face betrays nothing. The man has a poker face that could win tournaments.
“This way, please.”
I follow him down the corridor, trying to memorize the route through the labyrinthine compound. Left at the glass wall overlooking the forest. Right at the abstract metal sculpture that looks vaguely like a bird in flight. Down a sweeping staircase with steps that seem to float without visible support.
I pause at the threshold of the dining room, taking a steadying breath. Then I step through the doorway.
The room is predictably austere. A long table of dark wood that could seat twenty but is set for only two, one at the head and one to the right. The lighting is soft but precise, focused on the table while leaving the corners of the room in shadow. A chandelier of crystal and steel hangs overhead, catching the light like suspended rain.
And at the head of the table sits Caleb Asher.
He’s already looking at me when I enter, as if he’s been waiting, watching the doorway. His eyes find mine immediately, and something electric passes between us, a current I can’t name but instantly recognize. Then his gaze drops, traveling down my body in a slow, deliberate assessment that leaves heat in its wake.
I feel suddenly, acutely aware of how the yellow dress clings to my curves, how the hem falls just above my knees, how the neckline dips lower than I remembered. Under his scrutiny, I feel both exposed and strangely powerful.
He takes his time with this inventory. No pretense of polite disinterest or professional distance. Just open, unabashed looking, as if he has every right to memorize the lines of my body. When his eyes finally return to my face, there’s something in them that makes my breath catch. A hunger, quickly masked but unmistakable.
I should be offended. Should feel objectified or reduced. Instead, I feel seen in a way I haven’t been in months. Not as a burden or a charity case or a problem to be solved, but as a woman. Desirable. Worth looking at.
Dangerous thoughts, when my livelihood depends on this man’s professional opinion of me.
“Ms. Vance.” His voice is deeper than it was in his office, rougher around the edges. “Right on time.”
“I try to be punctual.” My own voice comes out steadier than I expect, given the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
