Chapter 12 #2
ME: It's practical. I need to approve the wardrobe for tonight's appearance.
CHRISTIAN: Sure. That's definitely why you're there.
CHRISTIAN: Not because you want to see her half-naked
ME: I'm turning my phone off now.
CHRISTIAN: Have fun checking out your wife!
I silence my phone and look up just as Harper emerges again.
This dress is different—black this time, with long sleeves and a high neck that should be conservative but somehow isn't. It's fitted in a way that's almost lethal, highlighting every curve, and there's a slit up one side that makes my brain leak a neuron or two.
"Better?" she asks.
I've forgotten how to speak.
"Victor?"
"That's..." I clear my throat. "That's also appropriate."
She crosses her arms, which does interesting things to her full, freckle-spattered cleavage. "You're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"At giving feedback. Simone, is he always this helpful?"
Simone, who's watching us with poorly concealed enjoyment, nods. "In my experience, whenever Mr. Kade makes an order through his assistant, he seems very decisive about business matters. Personal matters seem to... challenge him."
"I'm standing right here," I point out.
"We know," they say in unison.
Harper disappears again, and I'm left with Simone, who's looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting case study.
"The lavender was better," I say.
"I agree."
"But the black is—" I stop, because I don't know how to finish that sentence without sounding like I'm having inappropriate thoughts about my employee and fake wife.
"Memorable?" Simone suggests.
"That's one word for it."
"Mr. Kade, if I may be direct?"
"I suspect you will be regardless."
"Your wife looks beautiful in everything. The question is: which dress makes you proudest to have her on your arm tonight?"
I think about that. About walking into the Grandview with Harper beside me. About the photos, the whispers, the way people will look at us and try to figure out how the hell the vicious, deal-mongering Darth Vader of Food Media ended up with someone so warm and alive.
"The lavender,” I say. "Definitely the lavender.”
Simone smiles. "Good choice."
Harper emerges one more time, back in the pale purple-ish dress, and I'm prepared this time. I tell myself to give appropriate feedback. Professional but appreciative. The kind of compliment that—
Oh shit. I stop.
The zipper is stuck.
Harper's trying to reach behind her back, stretching awkwardly, and the dress is half-zipped, showing a slice of skin that I should not be noticing.
"Simone?" Harper calls. "Can you—oh."
Simone's phone is ringing. She glances at it, then at us, and makes a decision.
"Excuse me one moment. Fashion emergency with another client." She gestures to me. "Mr. Kade can help with the zipper."
Then she's gone, disappearing into the back room before either of us can protest, and Harper and I are stuck there, staring at each other.
"I can wait for Simone,” she says.
"The zipper's stuck. You'll be here all night."
"I'm sure she'll be right—“
“I’ll handle it. Turn around, Beaumont, and stop being so damn stubborn.”
She hesitates at first, then turns around, presenting me with her back.
I approach slowly, like she's a skittish animal that might bolt.
Up close, I can smell her perfume—something light and honey-suckled that I've started associating with morning coffee and late-night texts.
The zipper is indeed stuck, caught on the fabric.
I reach for it, and my knuckles brush against her spine.
She inhales sharply.
“Too rough?” I ask.
"It's fine. Just... cold hands."
My hands aren't cold. They're burning.
I work at the zipper, trying to free the caught fabric. This requires getting closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough to see the tiny beauty mark at the base of her neck.
"Almost got it," I say, my voice rougher than it should be.
"Take your time."
I free the fabric and start to pull the zipper up. Slowly. Because if I go too fast, it might catch again. That's the only reason I'm going slowly.
Not because I'm hyperaware of every inch of skin disappearing under the dress.
Not because the blood is rushing to my overactive groin and my brain is supplying extremely R-rated, fully nude, not-safe-for-work thoughts about reversing the process.
"There," I say, but I don't step back.
Harper doesn't step forward.
We're standing too close. The fitting room is suddenly too small, too warm, too full of things we're not saying.
She turns to face me, and I should step back now. I should maintain professional distance. I should—
“Mr. Kade,” she says quietly.
"Harper."
It’s the first time I can remember saying her name—her first name. And it tastes delicious on my tongue.
Meanwhile, Harper’s hazel eyes are searching mine, looking for something—permission, maybe, or a reason to stop.
I don't give her one.
Instead, I cup her face with one hand, my thumb brushing her cheekbone, and I kiss her.
And my God, the feel of her mouth against mine is nothing like it was in Vegas.
Not an ounce. Not a drop. Not a centimeter.
No. That was tequila-fueled and desperate and half-forgotten.
This is deliberate.
Sober.
Undeniable.
She makes a small sound against my lips and her hands come up to grip my lapels, pulling me closer. I back her against the mirror, careful not to crush the dress, and she responds by threading her fingers through my hair and kissing me harder.
This is insane. We're in a public boutique. Simone could come back any second. We have an event in three hours. We have rules.
And I don’t give a single shit about any of it.
Because Harper tastes like sex and mint and defiance, and I want more of it. More of her. More of this feeling of falling that I've been fighting since the moment she literally stumbled into my tightly regimented life.
The kiss deepens, heat surging through me so fast that I barely feel my erection until it stiffens between us.
My cock strains, hot and heavy, my body demanding more as the length of me presses against her stomach, hard and unmistakable.
And when Harper gasps at the contact, I instantly swallow the sound, my fingers digging into her waist, my hips having a will of their own—pressing forward before I can stop them.
Her hands slide from my hair to my shoulders, my chest, and I'm about to do something extremely inadvisable when I hear it.
Footsteps.
We break apart like we've been electrocuted. Harper's eyes are wide, her lips slightly swollen, her usual composure completely destroyed. I probably look worse.
"Mr. Kade?" Simone's voice from the other room. "I found the matching shoes!"
Harper smooths her dress with shaking hands. I step back, putting a professional amount of distance between us, and try to remember how to act like a functional adult.
Simone rounds the corner, holding a pair of strappy heels, and stops. Her gaze flicks between us, and something alert crosses her face.
"The lavender, then?" she asks, perfectly composed.
"Yes," I say, my voice remarkably steady considering my heart is trying to escape my chest. "The lavender.”
"Excellent choice." She sets down the shoes. "I'll have everything sent to your residence this evening. Harper, the shoes are a size seven, yes?"
"Yes," Harper squeaks, not looking at me. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." Simone's smile is neutral, but her brown eyes are laughing. "Mr. Kade, I assume you'll be collecting your wife this evening for the event?"
"I'll pick her up at seven," I say.
"Wonderful. Harper, you can change back into your clothes. Take your time."
Simone disappears again, and Harper and I are left in the awkward aftermath of whatever the hell just happened.
“I shouldn’t have—“ she starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"We probably should."
"Not here. Not now." I straighten my tie, reaching for the control that's been slipping since the moment I walked into this boutique. "You have everything you need? Car service? Access to Gina if you need anything?"
"Yes, but—"
"Good." I pull out my wallet and hand her my AmEx. "In case you need anything else. Simone will put the dress and accessories on my account."
Harper stares at the card like it might bite her. "I can't—"
"You can. You will." I meet her eyes, and I can see the same confusion I'm feeling reflected back at me. "This is part of the arrangement. I’ll handle the logistics."
"Is that what we're calling it? Logistics?"
"Harper."
"Fine." She takes the card, her fingers brushing mine in a way that definitely isn't accidental, before I pull away.
“Good, then. Seven o'clock," I say. "Wear the lavender dress. Simone will send jewelry options. Choose whichever you like."
"Victor—"
"I'll see you tonight."
I step forward, kissing her hard and fast.
Her hazel eyes are dazed when I pull back, leaving before I can do something else stupid, like kiss her again. Like tell her that the dress doesn't matter because she could show up in a paper bag and I'd still think she was the most captivating woman in the room.
Like admit that this arrangement stopped being fake somewhere between the French press and the stuck zipper, and I have no idea what to do about it.
In the car, my phone is still exploding with messages from Christian and Roman, but I ignore all of them.
Instead, I sit in traffic, my skin still humming from where Harper touched me, and try to convince myself that what just happened was a momentary lapse in judgment.
A blip on the radar. A mistake.
Nothing more.
I sigh, as my driver James pulls the truck into traffic, wishing my inner voice were a hell of a lot more convincing than this.