Besides, this whole thing reeks of date night energy. And I’m not exactly eager to play the role of decorative third wheel, not with Calvin.
“Uh… thank you for the invite, but I can’t go. I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Then we’ll go shopping when I get back!” she chirps. “It’ll be fun. Glamour, gowns, mystery… It’s very you.”
Okay… I have to admit, a masquerade ball does sound kind of fun. The drama, the masks, the chance to disappear and be someone else for a night? It’s tempting. But reality crushes the fantasy almost instantly. I don’t have the money to splurge on a dress, let alone something couture-worthy.
Before I can voice that thought, Abigail grabs my hand and tugs me toward the stairs. “Come on.”
I stumble after her, half-asleep and hyper-aware that I’m in nothing but boy shorts and a tank top that says ‘make me’. My skin prickles. I tug the hem down, as if that’ll somehow make me decent.
“It’s okay,” she says, glancing back at me with a smirk. “He’s at the gym.”
He. Calvin. Of course, I knew he got back last night. I haven’t seen him in days because he has been away on business. Not that I missed him or anything ridiculous like that. I didn’t miss the way his smile lights up his entire face. Or how his eyes find me the moment I walk into a room. Or the way his attention feels like sunlight through a window, yet dangerous, addictive. He’s not my man.
Still, I can’t help the little flutter in my chest, like my body’s waiting for him to walk through the door.
Abigail stops at the console table near the elevator,plucking her keys and a credit card off the tray. She turns and holds them both out to me. “Here. Take these. Go buy a dress.”
I blink at her, unsure if I heard right. “I appreciate it, but that’s okay.” I reach for only the car keys, leaving the card untouched. “I have my own.”
Her smile drops. “Oh, not this again.”
“Not what again?” I ask, wary.
“You and your I-don’t-need-anyone thing,” she says, clearly annoyed. “You hate it when people do things for you.”
“I don’thateit. I just think it’s unnecessary most of the time,” I say, crossing my arms.
Abigail lets out an exasperated sigh. “Blair, come on. You’re a college student living in one of the most expensive cities in the world. You don’t have a job. Mom and Dad send you money every month. Hate to break it to you, but you have nothing.”
I stare at her, stunned.
“And look around.” She gestures to the penthouse, the walls dripping in understated luxury. “I’m marrying a millionaire. A millionaire, Blair. Take the damn card. I don’t want to leave you here alone with no money. Jesus.”
She practically shoves it into my hand, kisses my cheek, and steps into the elevator without waiting for a response.
I stand there blinking, the credit card cold in my palm. Did she just call me broke?
“I have a job, you know!” I shout at the closing elevator doors. They don’t answer.
I do have a job. Sort of. I make content, post on socials. It’s not a desk job, but it’s work. And Mom and Dad don’t “send me money every month.” They help. Occasionally. When I really need it.
That’s different.
Isn’t it?
Suddenly, the air seems to thicken. I don’t have to turn around. I feel him before I see him. The scent hits first, spiced citrus and something inherently Calvin. It wraps around me like a noose.
Then comes the sound. A low, deliberate clearing of his throat.
When I finally turn, he’s there, sweat-slicked, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. My breath catches, chest tightening. Is this real? Or some fever dream conjured by my very worst, most wicked craving?
His chest rises and falls with the echo of exertion, skin gleaming under the morning light. A single bead of sweat slips down his abs, inked muscle stacked like sin itself, trailing lower and lower until it disappears beneath the waistband.
God help me, I’m drooling.
I try, try, to look away. To be good. But my gaze lingers.
