Chapter 4
TESSA
Absolutely not.”
Joanie’s voice cuts through the steam from my curling iron as she spots the garment bag hanging on my closet door. She sets down the eyeshadow palette and crosses the room like a woman on a mission.
“Is this what I think it is?” She unzips the bag before I can stop her, revealing the pink silk dress I’ve been saving. “Tessa Marie Hart. This is the dress.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“It’s the dress you’ve been saving for three years.
The dress you wouldn’t wear to your cousin’s wedding because ‘the occasion wasn’t special enough.
’ The dress you literally called your ‘someday dress.’” She turns to face me, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.
“And you’re wearing it for a fake date?”
I focus on curling the next section of hair, avoiding her gaze in the mirror. “It’s an enjoyable event. Black tie. I didn’t have anything else appropriate.”
“You have four black-tie-appropriate dresses in that closet. I’ve seen your backup options.”
“They didn’t feel right.”
Joanie makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a snort. She drapes herself across my bed, propping her chin in her hands like she’s settling in for a show. “So when’s the wedding?”
“There’s no wedding. It’s one night. A favor for a stranger.”
“A hot stranger.”
“That’s not relevant.”
“That’s extremely relevant.” She grabs one of my throw pillows and hugs it to her chest. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about him all week.”
I have been thinking about him all week. That’s the problem.
Dark eyes. Broad shoulders. Low voice. His hand wrapped around mine, holding on like he didn’t want to let go. And the late-night thoughts that have me reaching for my vibrator.
“Oh, my god.” Joanie sits up, eyes wide. “You’re blushing. You’re actually blushing. Tessa Hart, who once gave a twenty-minute presentation on orgasm equality without breaking a sweat, is blushing about a man.”
“I’m not—the curling iron is hot.”
“Lie to yourself if you want, but you can’t lie to me.” She comes to stand behind me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “This isn’t fake for you anymore, is it?”
I set down the curling iron. My hands are trembling slightly, which is ridiculous. I don’t get nervous about dates. I’m the one who coaches other people through date anxiety.
But right now I feel like a woman in way over her head.
“I don’t know what it is,” I admit. “We’ve exchanged maybe twenty text messages. I know he works in security, has a sister who meddles, and doesn’t like Moscow Mules. That’s it. That’s the sum total of my knowledge about Archie...”
I trail off, realizing I don’t know his last name.
“You don’t know his last name,” Joanie says flatly.
“It hasn’t come up.”
“You’re going to a Valentine’s Day gala with a man whose last name you don’t know, wearing the dress you’ve been saving for ‘the one,’ and you want me to believe this is casual?”
When she puts it like that, it sounds insane. I give dating advice for a living. I know exactly how many red flags are waving in this situation.
But I also know how it felt when he looked at me. Like he was happy with what he saw, not making a list of things he could tolerate.
“I know it’s crazy,” I say softly. “I know everything about this breaks my own rules. But Joanie... there’s a spark between us. I’d rather find out I was wrong than spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
Joanie’s expression softens. She squeezes my shoulders, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror. “Then let’s make sure you knock him dead. Where’s your good lipstick?”
The doorbell rings, and I give myself one last look in the full-length mirror.
The soft pink silk hugs my curves, and the neckline is elegant but daring. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders. The makeup Joanie helped with is subtle but sexy—smoky eyes, nude lips, a hint of shimmer on my cheekbones.
My heels click against the hardwood as I cross to the door. My heart is pounding. I take a breath, paste on what I hope is a confident smile.
I open the door, and my brain simply stops functioning. Archie is in a tuxedo, and the black jacket stretches across his broad shoulders as if it were custom-made for him. His dark hair is styled, swept back from his forehead. His jaw is freshly shaved, emphasizing its strong line.
He’s gorgeous. Dangerously, unfairly, breathtakingly gorgeous.
He’s also tugging at his collar like he’s uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I manage.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes travel from my face down the length of the dress and back up again, slow and thorough. When they reach my face again, they’ve gone darker, intent.
“You look...”
I wait. The silence stretches.
“Good,” he finally says, voice hoarse. “You look good.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Good? I spent three hours getting ready for ‘good’?”
“Incredible.” The word comes out. “You look incredible. I’m having trouble remembering how to talk.”
My face flushes. I step closer, close enough to smell his cologne.
“Your tie’s crooked,” I say, even though it isn’t.
I reach up and adjust the knot. My fingers brush the warm skin of his throat, and he freezes. When I glance up, his eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my core fill with heat.
We stand there for a moment that stretches into forever. My hands on his tie. His eyes on my mouth. The air between us charged with electricity.
“We should go,” he says quietly. He doesn’t move.
“We should,” I agree. I don’t move either.
Finally, he offers his arm. I take it, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his jacket. He escorts me to the sleek black town car waiting at the curb.
Inside the car, the leather seats are cool against my bare shoulders. Archie settles beside me, and the driver pulls smoothly away from the curb.
“Okay.” Archie shifts to face me, all business now. “We need to get our story straight. How long have we been dating?”
“A few weeks. New enough that we’re still in the honeymoon phase, which explains why we’re disgustingly into each other.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are we disgustingly into each other?”
“We should be, if we want to sell this.” I hold his gaze, willing my voice to stay steady. “Can you manage that?”
“I think I can handle it.”
The intensity of his gaze catches me off guard, and my stomach fills with butterflies. What did I get myself into?
“Favorite movie?” he asks.
“Die Hard.”
He stares at me. “Seriously?”
“What? It’s a classic. Action, romance, Alan Rickman being perfect—what’s not to love?”
“It’s my favorite movie.”
Now I’m the one staring. “You’re kidding.”
“I’ve seen it probably thirty times.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I watch it every Christmas.”
“It is a Christmas movie,” I say firmly. “I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”
“Same.”
We grin at each other like idiots.
“Okay, what else?” I lean back against the seat. “Musical preferences?”
“I like country music.”
I wrinkle my nose before I can stop myself. “Country?”
“Some country. The older stuff. Johnny Cash. Patsy Cline. Hank Williams.”
“I can tolerate Johnny Cash.”
“High praise.” He’s definitely smiling now. “What about you?”
“Eighties pop. The cheesier the better.”
“That’s...” He shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “We’re going to have problems with road trip playlists.”
The car glides past the illuminated shops of Chocolate Row, their windows still glowing with heart-shaped displays.
In the distance, the arched silhouette of Lock & Key Bridge rises against the night sky.
I turn my head to look at it, a familiar ache building, and when I glance back, Archie’s watching me with a question in his eyes.
“Good thing we’re not planning any road trips,” I say.
“Right.” The smile fades slightly. “One night. That’s the deal.”
I should nod and confirm that after tonight, we go back to being strangers. That’s what I promised.
Instead, I say, “Well, the things you do for the person you love.”
I meant it as a joke, but neither of us is laughing.
I can’t read Archie’s expression in the dim light of the car, but I can feel his focus.
I should take it back. Laugh it off. Pretend I didn’t just drop the L-word into a conversation with a man who is a stranger to me.
But when I risk a glance at him, he’s not looking at me like I said the wrong thing. He’s looking at me like he’s actually looking forward to tonight.
The car turns onto a tree-lined drive, and the Gilded Hart Hotel rises before us—a grand Victorian mansion ablaze with light. Fairy lights drape the facade in golden cascades, and tasteful red velvet bows accent the entrance. A doorman in burgundy livery stands beneath the portico.
Archie gets out first. He circles to my side and stands waiting as the driver opens my door.
He extends his hand.
I place my palm in his, and his fingers curl around mine, guiding me smoothly out of the car.
“Ready?” he asks.