Chapter Twenty-One
Oliver
When Sloane pulls up to Riverstone Tailors and parks on the side of the street, I have to do a double take.
“What is this?” I ask as he casually leans back in his driver’s seat.
“They don’t open until nine, so I thought perhaps we could get breakfast first.”
I glance up and down the street, not quite sure where he’s talking about since I don’t see a restaurant on this street at all. Just large skyscrapers and the elegant scroll font of the tailors.
“I had breakfast," I say, crossing my arms.
Sloane smirks. “How much sugar was in that breakfast?”
“It doesn’t matter," I say defensively.
Sloane chuckles.
“You will see my reasoning one day, Oliver.”
He gets out of the car and opens my door before I can even get my damn hand on the handle.
“You are an asshole, you know that?” I say.
Sloane grins.
“Yes, I am aware.”
He closes the door and stands straighter, his demeanor shifting once more to the one I know from the office. The public persona, I realize.
“Come," he says sternly, taking off for the sidewalk.
I don’t think twice about following him or the words I say in response.
“Yes, Sir.”
I follow him one block down from where we parked, and he turns into a shaded alley.
“You planning on murdering me today?” I ask. “I mean firing me would be a lot easier…”
Sloane chuckles darkly. “If I wanted to murder you, Oliver, you’d know it.”
“That doesn’t sound fucking ominous…” I say, and he laughs.
Then he opens a heavy, steel door. Light pours through into the alley, and I look at him in surprise.
“Go on.”
I step in, and a moment later I feel him behind me, his warmth, his presence.
His spicy wood-leather scent fills my lungs, and I relax almost instantly.
He brushes past me, taking the lead, and I follow him down a brightly lit corridor until we arrive in a lobby with several offices and suites.
He heads directly for one that reads La Salle, and the closer we get the heavier the scent of sugar and coffee is.
Inside, it’s small, not overly busy. I follow him to the register, studying the menu, but everything is in French, and I have no clue what I’m looking at. The only word I think I understand is creme brulee.
“What is this?” I ask under my breath.
“Breakfast.” Sloane shrugs.
“No, I know that, but like… I don’t even know how to pronounce this stuff.”
Sloane gives me a sly grin.
“Well, perhaps you will just have to trust me, Oliver.”
I narrow my gaze at him as the barista comes up to the register.
And then she speaks French.
My blood chills. I have no clue what she said. I can only surmise that because this is a cafe, she asked what he wants, but still, it’s a little jarring and I’m not sure I expected that.
Or the fact that Sloane answers, in perfect French, something that sounds sinfully sexy.
He pulls his card out and turns to catch my surprised glare.
“What?” he asks as if he didn’t just speak the sexiest jumble of words I’ve ever heard.
“I didn’t know you spoke French.”
Sloane grins with pride. “I minored in French in college.”
“Of course you did," I say, shaking my head. The barista hands him back his card, and we move down to the counter. She sets to making the drinks, the scent of espresso and cream thick in the air.
“If you’re trying to impress me… it’s working," I say with a smirk.
“If I wanted to impress you, I wouldn’t take you here," he says, shaking his head.
“No? Where would you take me?” I ask curiously.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t have the same effect. You wouldn’t be surprised.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s how you want to be?”
His eyes sparkle with that familiar darkness that makes my stomach twist so deliciously.
“That’s how it’s going to be," he says as the barista slides two drinks towards us. Sloane hands me one, and a moment later the barista presents us with two cardboard boxes. Sloane thanks her—I assume, because I don’t know French—and then we take our seats in the corner.
There are no windows, but it still feels bright and cheery, and the interior reminds me of an outside cafe.
Our seats aren’t close, but the space is tight. He might be across from me, but there’s nowhere to stretch my legs, so they end up between his. I pop open my box to see what looks like some sort of egg dish and bread with some small souffle cups of what looks like cream, butter, and jelly.
“What is this?” I ask as I unravel the napkin and find the silverware.
“A souffle," he says with a shrug, popping open his box. “Eggs, cheese, vegetables. Whipped nice and fluffy.”
I note the shift of darkness in his eyes when he says those two words. Whipped. And fluffy.
My cheeks pinken as images I should not be thinking about come to mind and I have to look away.
“I have a feeling you’ll like it.”
“How do you know?” I ask as I stab the fluffy souffle with my fork. It bounces with a spring. “How do you know what I like and what I don’t?”
Sloane carefully spreads some buttery spread on his bread, not looking at me.
“Because I study people," he says apathetically. “I can form a pretty good picture from the things you don’t realize you project.”
“Like what?” I take a bite of my souffle and instantly I groan. It’s sweet but savory, and the heat warms me to my toes.
Sloane lets out a warm chuckle. “I take it you like it.”
“I didn’t say that," I say as I stab another piece.
Sloan chuckles.
“Posture, for one," he says. “Eye contact. The little details like your watch that is too big for your wrist, or your preference for toddler food.”
“Hey!” I bite through my mouth full of food.
Sloane laughs.
“The tension in your shoulders. You carry more than you are aware of. Your resistance to my taking care of you," he says, his voice smooth, almost detached. “You crave sweetness and softness because your life is devoid of it.”
Suddenly the air changes, and I’m not laughing. Neither is he.
“But that is not a bad thing, Oliver," he says carefully. “We often want the things we don’t have. That is human nature.”
My gaze fixates on his eyes. On the glimmer of interest there.
“What do you crave?” I ask, finally finding my voice. “What is it that you are devoid of?”
Sloane tears into his bread, and it’s almost an eternity until he speaks.
“That is not a conversation for breakfast," he says, his voice solid and firm. Perhaps I’ve hit a nerve.
Interesting…
“Now, eat your souffle.”
And just like that, the flirtatious, suave Sloane disappears, shifting like a werewolf into Mr. Pierce once more.
After breakfast, Sloane leads me to the tailors, at exactly nine am.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“I need a new suit. For the party, of course.”
Ah, the party. Parker’s party.
The party on Friday, which Robbie said he’ll be at…
My shoulders tense.
I don’t know what he has planned, and I’m not sure I want to know. He told me he wouldn’t hurt Sloane… at least, I don’t think he would hurt him physically, but I can’t help but wonder what his plan is. I look at Sloane, an ache forming in my chest.
Maybe I could tell him not to go. Find some excuse or cancel at the last minute and tell him the party was cancelled, or…
“Come…” he says, his voice pulling me from my thoughts.
“Yes, Sir," I say as I follow him into the store. It doesn’t take us long to be waited on, and once the tailor checks in with us, he leaves us alone in the oversized room.
Suits sit in alcoves, lit with warm backlighting, and there are several counters with folded shirts and trousers.
The whole store is decked out in deep shades of mahogany and smells almost like Sloane—woodsy and expensive.
I peruse the racks as he looks through them, the air between us quiet.
I glance at one of the suit jackets—it’s a dark blue with silver buttons, with what looks like diamonds in the center.
They sparkle from the backlight and I run my fingers down the cuff, noticing how soft the fabric feels. It’s like butter.
I slip my fingers down to look at the tag and nearly choke when I see the price.
$2,000.00.
Shit.
I push it back and shake my head. That’s insane!
I feel Sloane come up beside me, his arm brushing mine. He leans in close, too close I think. I know we’re alone, but the tailors could come back at any minute.
“See something you like?” he asks, his breath warm on my throat. It sends a shiver through my spine, eliciting goosebumps on my skin.
“No,” I lie. I mean, sure I like it in the same way I like a cruise—in theory, but not in reality. That suit jacket cost almost as much as my damn rent!
“Have you ever been fitted for a suit?” he asks. I slip away from him as I head towards one of the counters which boasts an array of ties and folded shirts. I shake my head.
“Nope.”
Sloane carefully saunters around the counter, stalking me like prey.
But he never pounces. Just watches me as I mindlessly trail my fingers over the smooth fabrics.
“Well, perhaps we should rectify that.”
I look up at him and freeze.
“What? No, I don’t need—”
“Eddie.” Sloane’s firm voice stands out and a moment later the short, stout, bald man who’d greeted us comes over.
“Have you found something you like?” he asks, looking at Sloane. His voice is thick and tinged with an accent I can’t quite place.
“Not yet, I’m afraid. However, if you would be so kind as to help my lovely assistant, Oliver, out here with some measurements, that would be a very big help.”
“Mr. Pierce…” I huff as his gaze meets mine across the counter.
That one look says everything. This is not negotiable. My insides twist and my heart starts to race as this spark of desire forms.
I want to do as he says, but I also want to tell him to go pound salt.
But I don’t. I let Eddie take me over to the fitting rooms, which aren’t very big.
A raised platform in the center is surrounded by mirrors, and it is only when we get up close, I realize there are only two fitting rooms, one on the right and one on the left, enclosed by thick, heavy, burgundy curtains.