Page 102

Mitchell chokes on a laugh. I shoot him a look.

“Something funny, Mr. Knight?”

“Not at all.”

Liar.

The designer beams.

“Good. Attitude too. Even better.”

“Oh, I have plenty of that.”

“I’ve noticed, Firecracker,” Mitchell murmurs.

Did he just give me a nickname?

I ignore him.

Or try to.

That's getting harder.

I mean, I just can't stop thinking about what happened ten minutes ago.

Miss Hawthorne walked onto this floor to buy a dress, and you acted like you were auditioning for a role in Mean Girls. You acted like she didn’t belong here. And that is not fucking okay.

Who the fuck says that? More importantly, who says it like he genuinely means it?

Mitchell hadn't swooped in and told me I was beautiful because he thought the poor, fat girl needed reassurance.

He hadn't made me feel like a victim. He hadn't even pretended I needed him to rescue me.

He'd simply stood beside me and made it perfectly clear that the saleswoman was the one who had failed. Not me.

Then he'd looked at me, at my body, and—no.

We're not thinking about the way Mitchell looked at my body. Especially not after what happened on the sidewalk.

If you're really interested in what I know about women, Miss Hawthorne, I'd be happy to show you.

My skin heats just thinking about how he whispered that to me. His voice all growly and deep.

Nope. Absolutely fucking not.

The designer looks between us.

“What's the event?”

“Environmental benefit,” Mitchell answers. “Black tie. Emerald green preferred.”

“Emerald?”

Her attention immediately returns to my face.

“Perfect with those eyes.”

“I know,” Mitchell says.