Chapter 10 Damsel in This Dress
DAMSEL IN THIS DRESS
LUKE
It's Thursday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours after I drove to Alder Ridge to fix a security glitch and ended up with Sage Winters' tongue in my mouth.
All the while, I’m sitting in The Summit's mahogany-paneled lounge trying to look like a functional human being.
The October rain pelts the floor-to-ceiling windows forty-seven floors above Seattle, creating the kind of dramatic backdrop that usually makes me feel powerful and in control.
Today, it just reminds me of Sage's kitchen, moonlight, and the way her soft body felt against my mine destroyed my ability to think coherently.
"You're doing it again.” Connor’s gray-blue eyes are particularly penetrating from across the table, where we've gathered for another lunch to discuss Callum’s wedding. "The staring thing."
"I'm not staring." I adjust my glasses and try to focus on the tablet in front of me. “Now that we’ve gotten which color cummerbunds we’re going to be wearing to the wedding out of the way, I’m reviewing the SafeStay metrics."
"You've been 'reviewing' the same page for ten minutes," Alex points out, cutting into his thirty-dollar salmon. "Either those metrics are fascinating, or you're having a stroke."
"The Cascade View implementation is performing well," I say, which is true. My team has collected more useful data in a week than three months of laboratory testing. "We've identified thirty-one areas for improvement."
“Thirty-one,” Grayson repeats, swirling his whiskey despite it being barely past noon. "And how many of those improvements did you identify while your tongue was down the innkeeper's throat?"
I knock over my water glass.
"Shit." I grab napkins, trying to stem the flood while my supposedly mature, professional friends laugh like hyenas. "How did you—"
"Daniella.” Connor swipes a hand through his dark-golden locks. "She mentioned you came in this morning looking like you'd been 'mauled by a very small but determined bear.'"
"I was not mauled."
“She said your shirt was inside out," Grayson adds.
"It was not—" I pause, thinking back to this morning's frantic dressing. "That's irrelevant."
"So you did kiss her," Alex grins, looking far too pleased with himself. "Mac owes me fifty bucks."
“For fuck’s sake, is there anything this group doesn’t bet on?”
“We like to think of it as an investment in each other’s personal lives,” Connor corrects. “Literally. Also, Callum's engagement party is in six weeks. You could bring Sage."
"I'm not bringing anyone." I focus on mopping up water. “Yes,” I pause, “I kissed her. No, it didn’t mean anything. And one hundred percent was it a momentary lapse in judgment. We're business partners. Nothing more."
Grayson’s hazel stare bears a hole in my face. “So, you’re…business partners who make out in kitchens?”
"It wasn't—how do you even know it was in a kitchen?"
"Lucky guess. You seem like a kitchen make-out guy."
“It wasn’t—I’m not—” I stop.
Because I did goddamned make-out in the kitchen with Sage.
Because I can still taste her.
Taste the cinnamon, wine, and something I can’t name that’s been lodged in my throat since the moment I walked out that door.
“I don’t do this,” I say. Quieter now. “I don’t let things happen. Not anymore.”
The table quiets.
Because they know.
They know what Veronica took from me. How much I’m not willing to lose again.
I clear my throat. “I’m not that guy.”
"Well, you were a guy that looks a lot like him last night,” Connor comments, lifting his own glass. "And it seems like it's messing with your head."
"My head is fine."
"Your head is in Alder Ridge," Alex corrects. "With a red-headed innkeeper who apparently kisses like she's trying to steal souls."
"She doesn't—I never said that."
"You didn't have to. Your face says it all."
My phone buzzes before I can respond.
My grandmother Beatrice Sterling’s name flashes on the screen.
And I briefly consider throwing myself through the window.
"Don't answer that," Connor advises.
Rolling my eyes, I answer it anyway. Because I'm apparently a masochist. "Hello, Nana."
"Lukas! Perfect timing. I need you to pick me up at six tonight."
No ‘hello.’ No ‘how are you’.
Just straight to the point. Just like Nana.
I sigh.
"Tonight?" I flip through my mental calendar. “I don’t know about tonight, Nana. I have a meeting—"
"The Seattle Children’s Hospital foundation gala. You promised."
"I absolutely did not promise—"
"Three months ago. I have it in writing."
She doesn't, but arguing with Beatrice Sterling is like arguing with gravity.
Pointless and exhausting.
"Nana—"
"Six o'clock sharp. Wear the navy tuxedo. It brings out your eyes." She pauses. "And bring that lovely innkeeper."
"How do you—"
"Mira Patel has a very active Instagram, darling. Six o'clock!"
She hangs up before I can protest, leaving me staring at my phone like it might apologize for what just happened.
"Let me guess," Grayson says. "Nana Sterling strikes again?"
“Children’s hospital gala. Tonight. Apparently, I promised." I run a hand through my hair, already calculating the damage. "I'm supposed to meet with Sage about the system updates."
"So bring Sage to the gala," Connor suggests, like it's simple. "Kill two birds."
"I can't bring her to a society gala. We're business partners."
"Who make out in kitchens," all three say in unison.
“For fuck’s sake, it was just one time. One time. Won’t happen again.”
“Famous last words,” Alex says, green eyes practically glittering. "Trust me. Mac and I started with 'just one kiss' in an office ‘wellness room.’ Now we're married, and the number one item on my agenda each morning is how best to make her eggs.”
I pull out my phone, staring at Sage’s contact photo like it holds the answers to my current unraveling.
I’ve typed and deleted six messages since last night.
Half were apologies.
The kind that feel clinical, detached, like they were drafted by legal counsel and not by a man whose hands had been inside her shirt less than twenty-four hours ago.
The other half?
Pure, unhinged nonsense. Half-formed thoughts and denial disguised as professionalism.
Things like:
“Last night was a lapse.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“We need boundaries.”
Which is a joke, because if I had any real boundaries left, I wouldn’t be able to recall the exact sound she made when I gripped her thighs and pressed myself between them.
Wouldn’t still feel the phantom heat of her bare skin under my palms. The taste of her mouth. The scent of her.
The sweet, brutal catch in her throat when my body pushed against hers and her nipples went pebble-hard through her shirt.
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the problem.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with her.
Not with the woman I’m technically mentoring, professionally collaborating with, and most definitely not supposed to be imagining naked, sweat-soaked and writhing every time I close my damn eyes.
"Just call her," Connor says, jolting me back. “Rip off the Band-Aid. Whatever it is you’re telling yourself, it’s obviously eating you alive.”
He’s right. And that pisses me off.
Before I can lose my nerve or rewrite another emotionally sterile draft into my notes app, I hit call.
She picks up on the third ring, voice breathless and laced with chaos.
“Luke? Is everything okay? Is the system attacking guests again?”
“No. The system’s fine.”
I rise from my chair and move to the window, needing motion, distance, anything to offset the memories that pop into my head just as the mere sound of her voice.
“I have a scheduling conflict tonight. My grandmother roped me into a gala for the children’s hospital foundation.”
“Oh.” There’s a crash in the background. “Buttercup, NO! Sorry. You were saying?”
I almost smile. I shouldn't smile.
“I was supposed to meet with you about the system updates tonight,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “But I’m going to be at this thing. Black tie. Society crowd. The usual joyless formality.”
“Oh. Right. Sure. We can reschedule.”
Another thud. Possibly a goat-related one.
“Or... you could come.”
Silence.
A long, charged silence.
“To the gala,” I clarify. “As a guest. My guest.”
“You’re asking me on a date?” she asks.
“No. I mean yes. I mean—God, not like that.” I exhale. “I’m asking if you’d come to a function with me. As a... business engagement. Where we can also discuss the system updates.”
“So... a business non-date?”
“Exactly.” I glance at my friends, who are now openly eavesdropping with zero shame. “Strictly professional.”
She's quiet for a moment, and I can hear Buttercup bleating in the background. "What do people wear to hospital galas?"
"Formal attire. Cocktail dress, typically."
"Right. The kind of dress I definitely own and didn't sell on Poshmark to pay for plumbing repairs."
"Sage—"
"No, it's fine. I'll figure something out." She pauses. "This isn't because of last night, is it? The... kitchen incident?"
Connor mouths 'kitchen incident' at Grayson, who gives him a thumbs up.
"We should probably talk about that," I admit.
"Definitely. Absolutely. Talk about how it was a mistake and won't happen again."
"Right. Exactly."
"Great. So we're on the same page."
"Completely."
"Perfect. What time?"
"I'll pick you up at five-thirty."
"It's a business non-date," she confirms.
"The most professional of non-dates."
We hang up, and I turn to find my friends staring at me with identical expressions of pity.
"That was painful," Connor says.
"Actually physically hurt to witness," Grayson agrees.
"Business non-date?" Alex asks. "Really?"
"It's not a date." I return to my seat. "We're simply attending the same event. For efficiency."
"Efficiency," Connor repeats. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"I'm handling this professionally."
"You're handling this like a man who hasn't dated since the Cretaceous period," Grayson says. "Which, to be fair, you are."
"I've dated.”
"Amanda Chen doesn't count. You approached that relationship like a merger and acquisition."
"That's not—Okay, that's a little true."
"You liked Sage enough to drive out there at night," Alex points out. "That means something."
"It means I care about product quality. That’s all.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before my phone buzzes with a text from Sage.
Found a dress. It's either perfect or a disaster. No middle ground.
I snort.
"You're doing it again," Grayson observes. "The face thing."
"What face thing?"
"The 'I'm smitten but refuse to admit it' face."
"I don't have a—"
"You absolutely do," all three say together.
Another text: Fair warning - Buttercup ate my good shoes. I'll be wearing boots to your fancy gala. Very chic. Very "farm girl crashes society."
And then my phone rings. Daniella.
I answer, turning away from the Supreme Court of pain-in-my-ass now gawking at me.
"Luke?” Daniella’s voice is tiny. “Small problem. The Cascade View just called. Someone named Mira. Apparently, their system is showing some anomalies."
"What kind of anomalies?"
"The kind where it's randomly playing smooth jazz at full volume throughout the inn."
I close my eyes. "Of course it is."
"Want me to send Kenji?"
"No. I'll handle it when I get there tonight." I check my watch. "Tell them I'll fix it when I pick up Ms. Winters for the gala."
"The gala where you're definitely not taking her on a date?"
"Daniella—"
"Just checking, boss. I'll let them know."
I hang up and find my friends smirking at me.
"Let me guess," Connor says. "Inn emergency?"
"The system's playing unauthorized smooth jazz. I'll fix it tonight when I pick up Sage."
"For your business non-date," Grayson adds.
"Exactly."
"Where you'll definitely only discuss professional matters," Alex continues.
"That's the plan."
"While wearing a tux and attending a romantic gala," Connor finishes.
I grab my jacket, ignoring their laughter. "I have to go. Actual work to do before tonight."
"Luke," Alex calls as I reach the door. "For what it's worth? Mac says La Famiglia's been getting calls about catering the inn. Sage is working her ass off at that place.”
"Your point?"
"My point is that someone who fights that hard for something might be a good person to keep around. Just saying.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and head for my office.
The afternoon crawls by. I try to focus on quarterly reports, but my phone keeps lighting up with texts from Sage:
2:47 PM: “I’m guessing you heard by now. The smooth jazz is making the guests either very relaxed or very homicidal. Hard to tell."
3:15 PM: "Update: Mrs. Henderson is teaching Buttercup to foxtrot. I wish I was joking."
3:42 PM: "The system just switched to what I think is Kenny G's greatest hits. There may be a murder."
4:23 PM: "SOS. Even Buttercup looks disturbed."
I try not to dwell on the fact that I’m hyper-aware of every minute that passes at the clock slowly counts towards five-thirty.