23 - Jess
Jess
The tires of Brock’s Jeep Wrangler crunched against the pristine gravel of a tree-lined street in Georgetown.
The leather seats still had that new-car stiffness, a distinct contrast to the worn-in utility of Dane’s Bronco.
Brock gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles tightening slightly as he listened to the detailed summary of my evening with Hunter.
“The man actually dipped me,” I said, leaning back against the headrest and watching the brick storefronts flash past the passenger window.
“Right in front of David's chief compliance officer. He pulled out every classic ballroom move. Then, because the mixer only served these microscopic, cold vegan hors d'oeuvres that tasted like lawn clippings, he stopped at a greasy diner for late-night burgers on the way home. I didn’t even ask.”
Brock’s jaw set into a firm, rigid line.
“The guy's always doing too much. A dip on a corporate dance floor is an amateur move, Jess.
This whole trial setup is ridiculous anyway.
There shouldn't even be a test. I'm the obvious choice for this wedding, and you're wasting valuable time pretending otherwise.”
“The trial ensures quality control,” I said, secretly enjoying the way my words poked at his competitive streak. The knowledge that I held the reins of this multi-date experiment was a shot of adrenaline. “Hunter raised the stakes, now you have to earn your spot.”
The Jeep slowed to a crawl, pulling up to the curb in front of a sleek, limestone building with a minimalist black awning and no visible merchandise in the windows. A polished brass plaque beside the door read Maison Vieu.
The map on my phone indicated the mega-mall downtown, not a high-end designer sanctuary that looked like it required a blood sacrifice to enter. “What’s this? I thought we were going to Nordstrom’s.”
Brock cut the ignition, the engine dying with a smooth purr. “And I thought you deserve something better than off-the-rack separates from a department store mall. I made a phone call to the owner this morning. He was more than happy to accommodate the man responsible for his wife’s perfect body.”
Excitement bubbled up in my chest, a bright sensation that made my fingers twitch against the door handle. I unbuckled the seatbelt, ready to plant my flats onto the sidewalk, when Brock’s voice stopped me cold.
“Wait,” he said.
My hand froze on the latch, and I turned to look at him, expecting a lecture on boutique etiquette. He shifted his weight in the driver's seat, a tiny flicker of caution in his eyes betraying his casual tone.
“Is Dane part of this trial?” he asked, trying to sound relaxed about the layout of my social calendar.
It was an adorable attempt at being the chill guy while secretly fishing for information about the current status of my relationship with the gym’s resident alpha.
“How would you feel if I said yes?” I asked, tilting my head to study his profile.
Brock paused for a moment, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the steering wheel as he processed the options. He looked back at me, his eyes steady and unmasked. “I'm fine with it if you're fine with it.”
“I'm more than fine with it,” I replied without hesitation.
We held each other's gaze across the console, a silent agreement settling into place between the leather seats. Then he smiled at me, a silent confirmation that he accepted the terms of the arrangement. An internal rush of relief washed over me, though I kept my facial expression composed.
The heavy glass door of Maison Vieu closed behind us, cutting off the distant rumble of M Street traffic and plunging us into an environment of hushed, minimalist opulence.
White marble floors stretched toward plush velvet seating pods, and a single, architectural rail of silk and satin garments occupied the back wall.
Two consultants in identical black tailored suits offered synchronized, deferential nods.
Within minutes, the store belonged exclusively to us, the front doors locked to the public while a crystal flute of vintage champagne materialized in my hand.
It was a bizarre breakaway from my everyday reality, a million miles removed from dusty museum basements and the sweaty platforms of Capitol Fitness.
“His wife must look amazing,” I murmured, taking a sip of the crisp, dry liquid as Brock settled onto a cream-colored velvet sofa, his long legs stretching out with complete comfort.
“I’m good at what I do,” Brock said with a confident grin. He signaled to the consultants, who immediately retrieved a pre-selected assortment of evening gowns. “Go put on the first one. I'll be Richard Gere.”
The next hour dissolved into a playful montage of fabric, zippers, and unapologetic attention.
The first option was a crimson floor-length gown with a plunging neckline that made me feel like a screen siren.
When I stepped out of the dressing room, Brock’s eyes darkened, his gaze moving over the contours of my body with an appreciative heat that made the champagne bubbles in my stomach fight back.
Before I could even reach the three-way mirror, his hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist and pulling me into his lap.
The expensive silk rustled as his mouth found mine with a firm, possessive kiss that left me breathless.
“That color is incredible on you,” he whispered against my neck, his thumbs tracing the bare skin of my shoulder blades. It sent a spark shooting down my spine. “But it might cause an actual riot at the reception. Let's see the next one.”
Next came a backless number in midnight-blue, hugging my hips like a second skin.
As I emerged, Brock stood up from the sofa, closing the distance between us with three long strides.
His hands settled on my waist, fingers digging slightly into the fabric to pull my hips flush against his.
He looked down at me, his eyes blazing with a mixture of amusement and pure desire.
“This one,” he declared. “It complements the gray tailored suit I have picked out for myself. We'll look like a power couple walking into that venue.”
I met his arrogance with a challenge of my own. “That's incredibly presumptuous of you.”
“It's not a presumption. Just a factual prediction of future events,” he said, his swagger intact as his lips brushed the sensitive skin just below my ear, causing a shiver to ripple across my shoulders. “Hunter had his little dance-floor moment, but this is the real deal. I play to win.”
The heavy flirting and the thrill of the competition filled the pristine space, but as Brock pulled back slightly to admire the fit of the dress, his eyes narrowed.
He noticed the tiny, involuntary tension in my jaw, the silent calculation that always ran in the back of my mind whenever Amberleigh's name entered the equation.
He slid his hands up to my shoulders, his touch grounding and warm. “Hey. There's something else going on in that head of yours. You're smiling, but you're somewhere else. Talk to me.”
I let out a soft sigh, the defensive walls cracking just enough to let the vulnerability show.
My fingers tightened around the stem of my empty champagne flute.
“I just... I don't want to make the wrong choice, Brock. I want this wedding to be absolutely perfect. I need to walk in there looking like a version of myself that she can't touch. Someone who’s moved past the betrayal. If I mess up the date, or the dress, or the attitude, it feels like she wins all over again.”
His expression softened into a protective sincerity that caught me off guard. He took the crystal glass from my hand and set it on a nearby table, then wrapped his arms securely around my waist, pulling me into the solid comfort of his chest.
“Jess, look at me,” he commanded softly, waiting until my eyes met his.
“You're perfect exactly as you are right now.
You don't have to put on a performance for this woman, and you don't have to prove a damn thing to someone who treated you like dirt five years ago.
You walk into that room with me, or with Hunter, or with Dane, and you're already the biggest prize in the building. You don't need to do anything else.”
The unforced support struck me right in the center of my chest, dissolving the residual anxiety of the past few weeks.
A profound wave of affection washed over me, and when he leaned down to kiss me this time, it lacked the playful competitive edge from before.
It was a kiss that swept me up in his strength, my hands sliding up into his hair as the luxury boutique faded into the background.
“This doesn't look like dress shopping,” a familiar, cheerful voice sounded from the front entrance.
We broke apart, our breathing slightly uneven as our heads snapped toward the locked glass doors.
Hunter stood just inside the threshold of Maison Vieu, a keycard dangling from his fingers as he offered the consultants a brief nod. A broad, unstoppable grin broke across his handsome face.
Brock didn't let go of my waist, his grip tightening as he fixed Hunter with an annoyed glare. “You're not allowed to hijack my date. Get back to work.”
“Relax,” Hunter said, strolling into the showroom with his hands in the pockets of his track pants.
His eyes never left the velvet clinging to my curves, the blue of his iris dark with an unblinking focus.
“Things are dead at the gym today. Just thought I'd check up on you guys, make sure the competition stayed fair.”
“You're a terrible liar,” I said, smelling his ulterior motives a mile away.
“I'm a concerned competitor,” Hunter corrected, stopping right at the edge of our plush little island. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray strand of hair near my neck and tucking it behind my ear, his skin hot against my cheek. “And for the record, that dress is definitely the one.”
“You're playing losing defense,” Brock said. “Leave us the room."
“I don't think I will,” Hunter murmured, his smile turning wicked as he picked up on the thick, crackling tension sizzling between the three of us.
The dressing suite behind us featured a private fitting room with padded walls, a massive tri-fold mirror, and a door that locked.
Promising total isolation from the consultants outside.
A reckless heat started in my stomach as I looked from Hunter's blazing eyes to the tight, competitive line of Brock’s jaw.
The portfolio diversification David mentioned required a real test drive, and this offered the perfect laboratory.
I took Hunter’s hand, then Brock’s, and pulled them both toward the suite.
“Since you're both here,” I whispered, my core already throbbing with heat.