“Don’t hate me for saying this…”
Oh god.I brace myself for the worst. Is he with someone else? Did she see him at Joyce or something?
Maybe it’s one of those women from the golf tournament. They were sweet—
“He did lie to you.” She nods. “I’m not going to justify that.”
I search her gaze as she searches mine. “But?”
“But you sought out that masked man, Slutty. You didn’t want to know who he was. You didn’t care what he looked like or who he was outside of that club. Teeth, no teeth—you. Did. Not. Care. You didn’t care to get to know him or find out where he aligns politically. His likes, his dislikes… Can you tell me any of those things about Dominus?”
My shoulders shake as I drag in a trembling breath.
She raises her eyebrows.
I shake my head.
“You wanted that anonymity, and he gave it to you.”
“But—”
“I’m just saying, maybe cut the guy some slack.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
“Yeah? You’re over it?” She cocks one eyebrow. “I can tell.”
I scoff.
“Come on. You have a plane to catch, but we havea lotof work to do first.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“Have youseena mirror lately? Your grays are an inch long.” She makes a sour face, then tugs me around my desk, grabbing my purse as we leave my small downtown office.
She’s right about one thing—if I flake on the Cowboys Holiday Gala, I’ll never forgive myself. Emerson invited me as his guest, and whether or not he already signed with Apex doesn’t matter.
I have to see this through, even though I’ll know in the back of my mind that Hart Strategic Management has done all it can do. I came, I saw, I tried my damn hardest.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Max
The Dallas franchise has gone all out for this event. Glittering diamonds dangle from chandeliers high above our heads. Scantily clad women draped in twinkling rhinestones mirror the fixtures above as they pass drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Everywhere the eye can see, the surfaces sparkle and shine.
But nothing catches my attention quite like Sutton Hart.
Dressed in a floor-length velvet gown, the shade of pink so dark it's nearly red, lips stained a matching shade and slick with gloss, she draws the eyes of every man in the room.
She hasn’t said two words to me, has barely even glanced my way—
But I can’t keep my fucking eyes off of her.
Where that deep V in the back of her dress dips down, nearly kissing the crest of her plump cheeks, I can easily imagine that flesh painted red by my palm, the way her skin goosebumps beneath the slightest brush of my fingertips, her body so reactive to even the simplest of touches.
The high neck of her evening gown may cover up her cleavage and those faint freckles that dust across her collar bones, but I can still picture that skin, red and flushed, glistening with sweat. I can recall with vivid clarity that chest rising and falling on each quick intake of breath.
She’s a masterpiece draped in velvet, but even more incredible without it.
