Chapter 32
Mina’s already waiting outside the shop when I arrive, huddled in a trench coat. She holds two coffees and a pastry bag in her hands.
“You’re late,” she calls.
“I was busy,” I say, taking a coffee from her. “Sleeping off the trauma of family holidays.”
She eyes me over the lid of her cup, assessing the damage. “They make you sit through football again?”
“And the annual matrimony and fertility inquisition.” I sip. “You’re an angel.”
She snorts. “You say that now. Wait until I make you try on tulle.”
The shop is all glass and the kind of lighting that makes every pore visible. There’s no music, just the soft drag of fabric on rails and the hiss of the steamer in the back. The saleswoman clocks us as soon as we step inside, her smile tense and perfectly white.
“Welcome to Carmichael’s,” the woman says. “Are we looking for something special, or just browsing?”
Mina jumps in. “My friend needs a dress for a work thing. Corporate. Formal, but not boring. No sequins, no body-con, no sad beige.” She jerks a thumb at me.
I shoot her a look, but the woman only smiles wider. “We have a few pieces that might work. Are you comfortable with color, or would you prefer neutral?”
I open my mouth, but Mina cuts me off. “She’s open to color. She’s an autumn, so let’s skip the cream and blush.”
The woman nods, already leading us toward the back. “We have a few selections from Soirée. Very structured, modern lines, some beautiful jewel tones.”
“Perfect,” says Mina, sliding her arm through mine.
As we drift past the racks, the saleswoman keeps up a soothing murmur about designers, materials, structure. Mina plucks at a hanger and holds it up: a long emerald dress with awkward sleeves and an odd neckline.
“Thoughts?”
I try to imagine myself in it. “Pass,” I say. “It’s a little…extreme.”
Mina tosses it back on the rack and keeps going, occasionally making a face at something overly beaded or ruffled.
She stops in front of a dress so red it makes my teeth ache. It’s floor-length, with a high slit, and a neckline engineered for scandal. Mina holds it out.
“This is the one,” she declares.
I nearly drop my coffee. “Absolutely not. I would rather die than walk into a work event dressed like Jessica Rabbit.”
“That’s exactly how you should be walking into a work event,” Mina says, handing the dress to the saleswoman, who looks like she’s trying not to clap. “Let’s grab a few more just to try.”
I end up in a dressing room that smells faintly of citrus cleaner.
The walls are mirrored on all sides, so every angle of my body is on display.
I try the emerald Mina picked back up first, and it’s still a pass.
Next is a violet slip dress that hangs off me, unflattering to the few curves I do have.
Mina shoves her way past the curtain and wrinkles her nose.
“That’s a no. You look like a 1990s prom date.”
I almost laugh, but then remember the red dress waiting in the corner.
“Fine,” I say.
I peel off the violet and slide into the red. It’s heavier than I expect. The lining is cool and slick, the fabric sculpting itself to me like a second skin. The slit hits mid-thigh, and the neckline is just this side of indecent. In the mirror, I see a stranger. But Mina’s right. It is striking.
Mina’s voice comes from outside. “Stop admiring yourself, and let me see.”
I open the curtain. Mina is already grinning, arms crossed.
“Holy shit,” she says. “You look like a Bond villain’s mistress.”
“It’s too much,” I say, turning to see if the back is as aggressive as the front.
It is.
“It’s perfect,” she says. “Honestly, if you don’t buy this, I will.”
The saleswoman materializes behind us, her voice gentle. “That color is fantastic on you. It’s classic, but with some modern details.”
Mina waves her off. “We’ll take it,” she says, then pulls me back into the dressing room.
I stand in the mirror a while longer, turning left and right, seeing what the world will see. For a moment, I forget everything else. Just me and the red dress.
Mina leans against the wall, arms folded. “So, you gonna tell me what actually happened with Nash?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” She pokes me in the shoulder. “What could be complicated? That boy’s got it bad for you.”
“I know,” I say, softly.
“And James?” She doesn’t say the rest, but it’s there, hanging in the air.
“He brought me cake on my birthday. Showed up at my door.”
“Did you let him in?”
“Just for a minute.”
She tilts her head. “Are you in love with him?”
“Who?” I ask for clarification.
“Either of them,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders.
I see the way my shoulders tense in the mirror, the way my mouth goes hard at the corners.
“I don’t know what I am,” I say.
Mina studies me, her expression softening. “Well, maybe you don’t have to know. Maybe just wear the dress, and see what happens.”
It sounds stupid, but also like the most reasonable advice she’s given me all year.
I change back into my clothes, the red gown draped over my arm as I head to the register, ready to spend a chunk of my bank account.
We leave the shop with a garment bag and two cups of lukewarm coffee. We walk for a while, neither of us saying much, the cold biting at our ankles. Mina squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. It’s enough.
When we part, Mina says, “Text me after the gala. I want a full report.”
“I will,” I promise.
She nods, gives a little wave, and melts into the crowd.
I walk the rest of the way home with the dress swinging at my side, thinking about the party, and the men, and whether it’s possible to have this gala end in anything but disaster.
***
The firm’s holiday gala is held on the top floor of the Beacon.
They’ve rented out the ballroom and when I step inside, it’s like a different world: chandeliers glimmering like icicles, women in high-shine dresses, men in suits tailored to the point of aggression.
The air is perfumed, the sound of glasses clinking and laughter floating over a string quartet.
Mina’s words echo in my head.
"Maybe just wear the dress, and see what happens."
So I do. The first thing I learn is that people look at you differently in a dress like this. The door attendant stares as I pass. The coat-check girl gawks as if she’s seen a ghost. Even the bartender gives me a small, evaluating nod. The red is almost louder than all the noise.
I find Nash before he finds me. He’s at the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish pouring his drink.
His hair is swept back, his suit is new, the tie already loosened in defiance of the gala’s unwritten dress code.
When he sees me, he freezes for a second, and just stares.
Then he grins, slow, almost feral, as he abandons the bar to greet me.
“Avery,” he says, voice pitched low. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I had to see what all the fuss was about. You clean up well.”
He shrugs, eyes trailing down the length of my dress. “Not as well as you.” There’s a hunger in his gaze that isn’t just about the dress, but the space between us, the months of distance we’ve endured. “You want to dance?” he asks.
I hesitate, but only for a second. “Sure.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. He doesn’t bother with the polite shuffle everyone else is doing. Instead, he just pulls me in, hands hot at my waist and the small of my back.
Nash leans close, his breath warm on my cheek. “I’ve missed this,” he says.
“What?”
“This,” he says, lips nearly at my ear. “You and me. Touching you. Being this close.” He laughs quietly. “You look like trouble, doll.”
I laugh. “You’d know.”
He holds me tighter. The music shifts again to something slower, almost sadder. I’m aware of the way we move together, how easily our bodies find the old rhythm, and for a moment I think I could let myself fall back into him, and the world would be okay.
I don’t see James, not at first. But I feel him.
Nash feels it, too. His grip tightens, and I follow his line of sight to the far end of the ballroom, where James stands in a shadowed corner, surrounded by people I don’t recognize.
When his eyes find me, they don’t slide away.
His stare burrows deeper, unblinking, as if he could pick apart every layer of me from across the room.
My breath catches, but Nash doesn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he draws me closer, staking a claim that is both obvious and transparently defensive.
“Well, well,” he murmurs. “We’ve got boss man’s attention. Think he’ll cut in?”
“Maybe,” I say, and Nash grins, wolfish.
“Let him try.”
But James doesn’t move.
He watches us dance, face unreadable, until Nash twirls me in a slow, deliberate circle, and I catch the glimmer of something brittle in James’s eyes.
Jealousy, maybe.
We finish the song. Nash’s hands linger just a beat too long on my hips before he steps back and says, “You need a drink?”
“Please,” I say, and he goes to fetch it, leaving me by the edge of the dance floor, pulse racing.
I let myself drift, taking in the crowd: a partner’s wife with diamond earrings big as dimes, a cluster of associates snapping selfies with the skyline as a backdrop, Vanessa in a sheath of midnight blue, trailing…PIERCE?!
What the fuck is he doing here?
She spots me and veers my direction, bringing Pierce in tow.
“Avery,” she purrs, eyes raking over the dress. “You look…different.”
I take in her high ponytail, slicked back so brutally tight that it’s giving her a temporary facelift.
I smile with all my teeth. “So do you. Love the hair. Very…bold.”
The dig lands, and she flicks her gaze to Pierce and places a hand on his arm.
“My boyfriend and I were just discussing whether anyone here would have the guts to wear red to a black-tie event.” She gives my dress a long, slow look. “You’re certainly making a statement.”
Pierce says nothing at first. His gaze travels over me, lingering half a second too long on the neckline and the bare skin above.
“Nice to see you, Avery,” he says.
“Can’t say the same, Pierce,” I reply. “See you found that housewife you were so desperately looking for.”
Pierce’s grin is too sharp, too white. “You’re one to talk. I heard you’ve been keeping busy. Speaking of…” he trails off, looking over my shoulder.
I turn to see James standing at my back. My face heats instantly, realizing that Vanessa made him aware of the rumors about James and I.
James steps forward, hands in his pockets, presence more threatening than ever.
“What was it you were going to say, Preston?”
Pierce’s jaw tightens. He looks at James, then at me, then back again, as if trying to calculate which of us has the upper hand.
Vanessa stiffens, her grip on Pierce’s arm tightening. I want to laugh, but the tension in the air is thick.
“Oh, uh, nothing,” he says, voice laced with restraint. “Just saying how lovely this event is. It’s Pierce, by the way.”
“Great. Enjoy your evening, Preston,” James taunts as he offers his arm to me.
I take it and follow him out onto the empty terrace. We stand leaning against the railing, looking out over the city skyline.
“You look incredible tonight,” James says.
“Thank you. Mina picked it, of course.”
He laughs, the sound softer than I expect. “You could have worn a paper sack, and you’d still put every woman in there to shame.”
The way he’s looking at me makes my pulse jump. His hand comes to rest on my lower back, fingers splayed, and I feel the imprint of his touch even through the fabric.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stands beside me, eyes on the city’s lights. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost tired.
“You ever wish you could start over?” he asks.
I snort. “Only every day.”
“I keep thinking about Nashville,” he says. “That week. What it was like before I made a mess of everything.”
He looks at me, and I see the cracks forming under his usual smooth exterior. “I shouldn’t have let you go,” he says.
I laugh, but it comes out wrong. “You didn’t have a choice, James. Neither of us did. And besides, things were…complicated outside of what we had going on anyway.”
“Nash?” he asks in the most straightforward way.
No point in lying now. We’re all guilty of the same thing.
“Yes. Nash.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a slow breath, eyes fixed on the skyline.
“I want you to come back. To me,” he clarifies. “If you want to, I mean. I can handle the rest. I can handle my father. I just—” He stops, exhaling hard through his nose. “I can’t go on like this.”
“James,” I say, and then I realize I don’t have a script for this moment. All I have is the pounding in my chest, the way his hand spans the small of my back as if to memorize it.
He’s closer now, the warmth of him radiating through my skin.
“Just…come back to me.”
“James, it’s not that simple.”
He studies me. “You’re right. It’s not. But there’s a part of you that’s still mine. And I’m not going to apologize for wanting it back.”
I can’t breathe for a second. I need to get out of here. Right now. Luckily, the firm booked a block of rooms for the gala attendees, and one of them is mine.
“I think I should call it a night.”
James removes his hand from the small of the back and gives me space to step away.
“Goodnight,” I say, leaving him behind on the terrace, intent on returning inside and heading straight up to my room.
Before I get the chance, I’m intercepted by Nash holding two drinks.
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are dark and searching, the levity of our moment before gone.
“That looked intense,” Nash says, nodding toward the terrace doors I’ve just slipped through. “You okay?”
I quickly down the entire drink before sucking a sharp breath through my teeth.
“Yeah. Just had enough of tonight.”
I’m moving toward the elevator before he can even think about responding