Chapter 27
“Is this really necessary?” I ask, standing on a fitting pedestal that lifts me a good six inches off the floor, surrounded by more fabric and finery than I’ve encountered in my entire life.
The jacket in my hands probably costs more than my entire wardrobe combined, which isn’t saying much, given that my standard attire consists of cargo pants, tactical boots, and athletic shirts that wick sweat.
Hawk leans against the wall beside the entrance, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the street outside through the boutique’s windows.
He’s been watching the door since we arrived, watching for potential threats, while I’m very unwillingly preoccupied.
“You can’t exactly go to a red-carpet event dressed like you’re going to the gun range,” he teases without turning around.
“Says who?” I grumble, holding up a charcoal jacket with a price tag that makes me want to vomit. “I’ve seen photos of these people. Half of them look like they got dressed in the dark.”
“Yeah, famous people,” Jake, Devyn’s agent, interjects from the seat beside her with an expression that hovers between amusement and exasperation. “You are a famous person’s date. You need to dress accordingly.”
Considering he’s partially to blame for my current predicament, I don’t exactly appreciate his condescension. And by blame, I mean he recommended his tailor to Devyn before inviting himself along to help me prepare for the event.
I huff, “Fine. I’ll wear the damn suit.”
“Tux,” Jake corrects, and I roll my eyes.
Devyn leans into the upholstered arm of her chair, her legs crossed at the ankle, a magazine open in her lap that she hasn’t actually read in twenty minutes.
She’s been watching me instead, her eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter.
I detest this fitting. “And I’m the brat? ” she teases sweetly.
I smirk at her, arching a brow as my gaze travels down her body in a way that promises retribution. “Oh, baby girl, you’re going to pay for that one later.”
She playfully smiles in return, clearly getting exactly what she wanted—the knowledge that I’ve filed away her impertinence for future correction.
Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and she shifts slightly in her seat, subtly pressing her thighs together.
She’s already anticipating whatever punishment I devise.
The tailor—a thin man with silver hair and an accent I can’t quite place—circles me with a measuring tape draped around his neck.
He clucks his tongue, adjusting the jacket I’m wearing, pinning fabric here and there with quick, efficient movements.
“The shoulders are excellent,” he muses, more to himself than to us.
“Very broad. We’ll need to let out the chest slightly. You have… bulk.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Devyn giggles, staring at my chest with an expression that has nothing to do with fashion.
“And now the trousers,” the tailor says, gesturing for me to step off the pedestal.
I comply, stripping out of the jacket and handing it over before reaching for the pants the tailor offers.
They’re black, sleek, and have a satin stripe down the outside.
I step into them, and they’re immediately uncomfortable.
They are too fitted in the thighs and remarkably restrictive around the crotch.
I adjust myself subtly, scowling at my reflection.
“They’re supposed to fit like that,” Devyn snickers, reading my expression. “Slim-cut and modern.”
“They’re supposed to let me breathe,” I counter. “The trousers are squeezing me so aggressively I’m starting to wonder whether this counts as a second vasectomy.”
“Vanity requires sacrifice,” Jake deadpans as the tailor pins the waistband.
The tailor holds up a strip of black silk, already pre-tied in a ridiculous bow that seems designed specifically to make grown men look like children playing dress-up, and I have officially reached my limit. “No,” I state flatly.
“It’s traditional,” Jake protests.
“It’s ridiculous,” I shoot back with cocked brows. “I look like a waiter. Or a penguin.”
“Gunnar.” Jake sighs. “It’s a black-tie event. You have to wear a bow tie.”
“I’ll wear a regular tie. A black one. Simple and functional.”
“A regular tie with a tuxedo is like wearing sneakers with a ball gown,” Devyn argues gently, standing and walking toward me. She takes the bow tie from the tailor, her fingers nimble as she loops it around my neck. “It just isn’t done.”
“It looks stupid.”
“It looks distinguished.”
Her compliments aside, I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. “I look like I’m about to ask someone if they’d like an hors d’oeuvre.”
Devyn finishes the knot, stepping back to survey her handiwork, and her expression softens. “You look handsome, like you belong next to me on the red carpet.”
I stare down at the sincerity in her eyes, and the fight drains out of me. If she wants me in a ridiculous bow tie, I’ll wear the fucking bow tie.
Fuck, I’d wear a clown suit if it means she keeps looking at me like that.
“Fine,” I grumble, adjusting the stupid noose around my neck. “But I’m taking it off the second we’re out of the public eye.”
“Deal,” she says, rising onto her toes to press a kiss to my jaw before whispering, “And you make an adorable penguin.”
The tailor clears his throat, and we both remember where we are, surrounded by mirrors and fabric samples, with Hawk and Jake observing us. “I can have this ready by morning, Ms. Martin,” the tailor says, gathering his pins and notes. “Do you need it delivered?”
“Yes, please,” Devyn answers, turning her smile on him with the warmth she reserves for people who make her life easier. “To the Malibu address. Thank you, Henri. Jake was right, you’re a godsend.”
Henri bows slightly, hanging the jacket with care. “My pleasure, Ms. Martin. I’ll include the studs and cufflinks. We agreed on mother-of-pearl, yes? Classic. Timeless.”
“Perfect,” Devyn agrees.
We leave the boutique about twenty minutes later, after I’ve changed back into my tactical pants, a black Henley, and boots that have seen actual use.
The afternoon sun hits us when we step onto the sidewalk, and Devyn’s hand slips into mine, her fingers threading through my calloused ones with easy intimacy.
After thanking and saying goodbye to Jake, we make our way toward the parking garage.
Hawk falls into step behind us, maintaining a respectful distance that gives us the illusion of privacy while still maintaining his protective perimeter.
The street is quiet for Los Angeles, devoid of paparazzi and tourists.
“This is nice,” Devyn shares, squeezing my hand. “Well, minus the chaperone.”
I glance back at Hawk, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “He’s not so bad.” I smirk. “For a shadow.”
“For a shadow,” she agrees, leaning her head against my shoulder as we walk.
When we pass a coffee shop, the scent of espresso and baked goods wafting onto the sidewalk, Devyn’s steps falter.
Her hand tightens in mine, and I follow her gaze to a man emerging from the shop’s entrance.
He’s tall, dark-haired, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my truck, and carrying himself with the easy entitlement of someone who’s never been told no.
“Devyn!” The man’s face lights up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he strides toward us with the confidence of a man who assumes he’s always welcome. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Colton,” Devyn greets him through carefully masked annoyance, polite but cool. “Good to see you.”
Colton Cross.
I know the name, have seen it in the entertainment news that Devyn pretends not to read. He’s an actor, and apparently a heartthrob, as well as her date to the Oscars a few nights before we arrived. The thought tightens my jaw, my hand clenching at my sides.
He barely glances at me, his gaze sliding over my face like I’m practically invisible.
He looks at Devyn, his expression predatory instead of charming.
“You look incredible,” he croons, his eyes roaming her body with a familiarity that makes my blood boil.
“Really, truly. That dress? Stunning. I’ve been meaning to text you, but you know how it is…
schedules, premieres, the whole madness. ”
“I do,” Devyn agrees, and I feel her discomfort through the tension in her arm.
“We should grab drinks sometime,” Colton continues, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Catch up properly. I know this great little place in the Hills—very private and exclusive. We could talk shop, maybe discuss that script I’ve been developing. I think you’d be perfect for the female lead.”
This fucking douche is asking her out. Right in front of me. I’m holding her fucking hand, and he’s asking her out like I’m not even here. Like I’m not a threat worth acknowledging.
I feel the familiar surge of possessiveness, the primal need to mark my territory and make it clear exactly who Devyn belongs to.
I keep my expression neutral as I slip my hand from Devyn’s and wrap it firmly around her waist. I pull her close, tucking her against my side with a jealousy that borders on crude.
She melts into me, her hand resting on my chest. “She’s busy later,” I say, my eyes locked on Colton’s face.
“And tomorrow. And the day after that. In fact, her schedule’s pretty full indefinitely. ”
Colton’s smile falters, his eyes finally focusing on me.
He looks me up and down—my tactical pants, scuffed boots, my untrimmed beard—and I see the dismissal in his expression as he calculates that I’m not worth his concern.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he says, his voice taking on a clipped edge. “Colton Cross. And you are?”
“The man she’s going home with,” I state simply.
The silence stretches on, taut and charged, Colton’s jaw tightening. For a moment, from the way he’s glaring at me, I think he might make this into something it doesn’t need to be.
“Right,” he says, forcing a laugh. “Well. Devyn, always a pleasure. I’ll have my people call your people about that script. Think about it.”
“I will,” Devyn replies, though we both know she won’t.
Colton nods once, sharp and jerky, before walking away. I watch him go, my hand still firm on Devyn’s waist. I don’t let myself relax until he’s turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
“That was…” Devyn starts.
“Rude?” I finish, finally releasing my hold on her, though I keep my arm around her shoulders when we resume walking. “Presumptuous? Assholish?”
“All of the above,” she agrees, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright with something that looks like approval. “You handled that well.”
“I wanted to break his nose,” I admit. “Slam his face into that window until he remembered how to respect another man’s woman.”
“But you didn’t,” she points out.
“Because you’re trying to have a career and having your boyfriend assault a fellow actor in broad daylight probably wouldn’t fare well for your ambitions or my caveman status in the media.”
“Probably not.” She chuckles, leaning into me again as we approach the SUV, where Hawk is already positioned by the rear door. We climb in, Devyn sliding across the leather seat before I settle in next to her. Hawk takes his behind the wheel. He starts the vehicle and pulls into traffic.
The city slides past the tinted windows, and my mind replays the encounter with Colton. The way he looked at her, like she was a prize to be won, and the way he looked at me, like I was an obstacle to be removed. Something about it sits wrong, festering in my gut.
“Colton Cross,” I grumble.
Devyn glances at me, her expression wary.
“He’s not worth thinking about. Really. He’s just…
He’s used to getting what he wants. I only went to the Oscars with him because Jake thought it would be good press.
He spent the entire night talking about himself and trying to convince me to go home with him when it was over. ”
I should let it go and focus on the event tomorrow, but I can’t shake this feeling.
Instinct has kept me alive in war zones, and I can’t bring myself to ignore it now.
The way Colton looked at her wasn’t just desire; it was the look of a man who believes he’s been denied something that rightfully belongs to him.
I pull out my phone, my thumbs moving across the screen.
“Who are you texting?” Devyn asks.
“Mattis,” I say, hitting send. “Asked him to look into Colton Cross.”
“Gunnar—”
“Something about him rubs me the wrong way,” I interrupt, turning to meet her gaze.
“Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just an arrogant prick with boundary issues.
But maybe it’s more. And until I know which it is, I want eyes on him.
I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, and what he does in the dark hours of the night. ”
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs, a soft exhale that carries acceptance rather than resignation. “Do you need a list of every guy I’ve ever dated?” she sasses.
“No,” I answer flatly. “We’ve already looked into all of them.”
“What?”
“Right down to Tommy Figueroa.”
“From junior high?”
“We were diligent. And truth be told, I don’t really like him, either.”
She shakes her head, fighting a smile as her fingers lace through mine, resting on her thigh. “You do hear yourself when you say things like that, don’t you?”