Lets get it over with #2
She slides into the passenger side, her small frame looking swallowed by the massive leather interior. She carefully tosses her bag onto the back seat. Noticing my intense gaze tracking her movements, she clears her throat nervously. "Is it okay if I put it there?"
"Yeah, of course," I reply, my voice dropping as I turn away and begin typing the fabric store's address into the navigation system.
It takes us about twenty minutes to reach the high-end fabric wholesaler—a store that is modest on the outside but a literal paradise for fashion designers on the inside.
Bolt after bolt of premium textiles are stacked toward the high ceilings, creating a labyrinth of color and texture. A delicate spiral staircase winds up to a mezzanine level, overlooking the vibrant chaos below.
As the bell chimes above the door, an elderly gentleman looks up from behind a massive roll of raw silk.
He looks like he just stepped straight out of a vintage fashion magazine, sporting a tailored plaid suit, a heavy tape measure draped around his neck, and thick tortoiseshell glasses.
His sharp eyes immediately lock onto us, and a knowing smile spreads across his face as he hurries over.
"Mr. Calloway! What an absolute honor," he gushes, bowing slightly.
He ignores Sophia completely, his eyes glued entirely to me.
"Hello, Sir," I reply, keeping my voice smooth but detached. I don't know this man. Maybe our paths crossed at some charity gala, but I don't remember. That is the curse of carrying a name like Calloway, everyone thinks they know you, while you remain surrounded by strangers.
"An absolute honor," the man repeats, practically beaming. He turns toward the back of the shop. "Elisabeth! Bring our guests some water, please."
Finally, the old man turns his attention to Sophia, his eyes narrowing slightly as if evaluating her presence. "And you are...?"
"Sophia Miller," she says, her voice tight, matching the rigid posture she has kept since we walked in. "My aunt spoke with you on the phone."
"Ah, yes! Of course. The fabrics!" He snaps his fingers and disappears into an adjacent room, his voice trailing back to us.
"Your aunt has an exquisite eye. High-quality, rare selections."
He reappears holding a thick ledger, tears out a small slip of paper, and slides it across the counter to her. "Here is the receipt, Miss Miller."
"Thank you," Sophia murmurs, taking the paper.
Elisabeth returns with two glasses of ice water. We both accept them, but my eyes are already drifting toward the vintage clock ticking loudly on the wall. Three hours until the party.
I watch silently as the old man begins rolling out the fabrics onto a wide wooden table. One by one. Ten massive, heavy bolts of premium textiles. I suppress a smug smile; taking the G-Wagon instead of my bike was definitely the right call.
"Perfect. Thank you so much," Sophia says, a small, genuine spark of satisfaction lighting up her eyes. She pulls a small notepad from her bag and aggressively crosses the item off her to-do list.
Then, the satisfaction turns into something entirely different. She turns around, crosses her arms, and fixes me with a look that is pure provocation. She gestures toward the mountain of heavy fabric on the table.
"Okay, so you can start loading those into the car now," she commands, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she tucks her notepad back into her bag.
I don't move. I just slowly raise one eyebrow, my gaze locking onto hers. The air between us instantly turns thick, charged with the sudden, violent urge to argue. But if I snap back now, she'll spark a massive argument out of pure spite, and we won't be out of here by Christmas.
Instead, I take a slow step straight into her personal space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. I lean down slightly, making sure she has no choice but to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
"As you wish, stalker," I murmur, keeping my tone deceptively low, letting my breath brush her cheek.
She doesn't back down, but the sudden, sharp flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat betrays her completely. I hold her gaze for one more lingering, intense second, letting her know exactly that I am choosing to let this go—for now.
Without another word, I grab the first two heavy bolts of fabric, my muscles tightening under my black shirt, and head out to the Mercedes.
The heavy glass door of the wholesaler chimes behind me as I step back out into the humid afternoon air.
I toss the fabric into the spacious trunk of the G-Wagon, the solid weight of the premium textiles settling against the leather with a dull thud.
My jaw is still clenched from her little performance inside.
As you wish
I replay my own stupid words in my head.
What am I her fucking Genie.
I roll my eyes
Why am I letting her boss me around?
I make three more trips back and forth, hauling the remaining heavy bolts under the watchful, amused eyes of the old merchant and Sophia's intensely stubborn gaze.
Every single time I walk past her, the scent of her strawberry lip gloss hits the back of my throat, and a sharp reminder of our kiss flashes in my mind.
By the time the final bolt is loaded, I am entirely wired. One hour until the party.
I open the driver's door and slide back behind the wheel, the cool leather doing nothing to soothe the sudden spike of adrenaline in my veins.
Sophia climbs into the passenger side a second later, pulling the seatbelt across her chest without making eye contact.
The heavy silence returns, pressing in on us as I shift the Mercedes into drive and roll away from the curb.
The silence between us is thick, heavy, and suffocating as the engine of the G-Wagon hums beneath us.
I keep my eyes fixed flat on the road, my fingers gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make my knuckles ache.
Every single muscle in my upper body is still tight from hauling those heavy bolts of fabric.
But the real tension isn't in my shoulders.
It's sitting right next to me in the passenger seat.
She hasn't said a single word since we pulled away from the wholesaler. She just stares out her side window, her small hands clasped tightly together over her lap.
I cut a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her profile is tense, her chin tilted up in that same stubborn, defensive angle she always uses when she's trying to convince the entire world she isn't terrified.
"So," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
"Are you going to give me the address of your aunt's home, or am I just driving you around the city until my fuel runs out?"
Sophia doesn't flinch. She slowly turns her head back toward me, her gaze flat and guarded.
And without a word she tipes in the address.