I turn slowly. "You had this delivered to our room?"
"The hotel has a partnership with the brand. They set it up. When the model bailed, I had them send the clothes here."
I walk over to the nearest rack and touch the fabric of a linen dress. It's soft. Breathable. The kind of thing I'd actually wear if I ever took a beach vacation, which I don't, because I don't take vacations.
"These are actually... really nice."
"Sustainable fibers. Local designers. The whole campaign is about coastal conservation."
I look at him over my shoulder. "You're trying to appeal to my values."
"Is it working?"
I sigh and lift the dress off the rack. It's simple. Clean lines. A soft gray-blue that reminds me of the Harbor District images.
"Thirty minutes," I say. "And you owe me."
Tom grins. "I'll buy you dinner."
"You're already buying me dinner. The Developer is paying for this trip."
"Then I'll buy you dessert."
I hold the dress up to my shoulders and meet his eyes in the mirror.
"Deal."
Chapter thirty-three
Sam
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me. I lock it, then stare at the garment bag hanging from the towel rack.
Thirty minutes.That was the deal. I strip off my travel clothes, folding my clothes into perfectly neat squares on the vanity, delaying the inevitable.
I unzip the bag. The linen fabric is a muted, coastal color—somewhere between slate and the deep teal of the harbor at dusk.
I pull the dress over my head. The fabric settles against my skin, surprisingly cool and incredibly light. I reach back, pull the zipper up in one smooth motion, and finally force myself to look in the mirror.
I stop breathing for a second.
It fits. It fits so perfectly it feels like a trick. The neckline sits exactly where it should, the waist cinches without pulling, and the hem falls just above my knee. It’s not armor, like my blazers and silk blouses. It’s entirely unguarded. The fabric moves with my slightest breath, tracing my ribs, the curve of my hips, the sharp line of my collarbone.
It doesn't hide me.
I press my hands against the edge of the sink.
This is what he's going to see through the viewfinder.
A sudden spike of adrenaline—half panic, half something entirely different—hits my chest. I grab my sandals, dangling them from two fingers, and unlock the door before I can lose my nerve.
I step out barefoot into the hotel room.
Tom is checking his camera battery, but at the sound of the latch, he looks up. His hands completely stop moving. He doesn't say anything. He just stares, his eyes tracking from the hem of the dress, up the drape of the linen, to my bare collarbone.
Suddenly hyper-aware of my own skin, I shift my weight. "Does it work?"
He blinks, seeming to shake himself out of a trance. He clears his throat. "Yeah. It works. Let's go."
