Chapter 23
Apparently, all I needed to get used to the feel of Elliot’s lips on mine was another five minutes of them there.
That had been enough to consider letting him do whatever to me on a conference table—when I had no experience in whatever, and I should probably start whatevering in a bed.
At the very least, on something with cushioning.
And probably with a person who wasn’t . . . trying to steal my job?
I groaned into our empty apartment, clutching the first failed design attempt against my chest when I let myself fall into bed.
The bedding almost matched the dress in color and, judging by Oliver’s assessment, in quality, too.
I could’ve probably tied a sheet around that mannequin, and he would’ve liked it more.
Because it would’ve been something new and bold and daring.
But that hadn’t been the assignment. And Camila had nodded off on the design.
Another groan as I sat up. At least Allegra was gone, and it didn’t seem like anyone had snooped through my room either, which was a small—and very much needed—relief after the day I’d had.
My underwear was in the drawer, still coordinated by color and material. My sketchbook was still neatly lined up with the desk. The only imprint on my bed was from my own ass. I went to hang Daphne’s would-be outfit onto the back of my door, but the space was occupied.
By a dress I didn’t recognize.
Wait.
In three long strides, I held the unfamiliar fabric between my fingers.
Silky smooth satin. A black that looked almost midnight blue if the light hit it right.
This couldn’t be Allegra’s doing, though.
No way she’d leave something this nice for me.
She’d always been pleasant, but it was obvious the woman couldn’t stand me.
Her smiles were too wide, she always seemed a little too surprised to see me, and well, she was obviously still in love with Elliot. The guy she knew I lived with.
The guy who, somehow, must’ve left this here. For me. The little note tucked between the hanger and strap of the dress confirmed it.
Tonight’s black tie. Didn’t need you to worry about an outfit again. Pick you up at 8. —E
And, like he couldn’t help himself, a winky face was scribbled on the corner of the paper.
His handwriting was as messy as I’d expected it. T’s blended into I’s, and the ink smeared halfway across the paper. I didn’t want to know what his palm must’ve looked like afterward.
But between kisses and almost-whatevers in empty meeting rooms, when did he have the time to pick up dresses and leave handwritten notes behind? He’d said he needed to get some stuff done before the fundraiser tonight, but it couldn’t possibly have been . . . this?
I didn’t notice at first. That I was smiling so hard my cheeks began to hurt, and the corners of my mouth strained. Five minutes must’ve passed, during which I absentmindedly stroked the fabric of his dress, rereading that note. Over and over again.
Thin straps, a square neckline, a tailored bodice, and a skirt that gently flared out from the waist. I’d recognize Camila Rodriguez’s craftsmanship anywhere.
Without checking the tag, I knew it would say Adeline Ashwood.
I also knew it had to be from one of Camila’s earlier collections, back when she was still playing it safe.
But the way that skirt moved so fluidly was uncanny.
An Adeline Ashwood. Aside from that kind of tacky T-shirt Mom found at a thrift store years before she’d died, I’d never felt one of their designs on my body. And this one hugged my waist and accented every single part of me perfectly.
Mom would probably cry.
Every time I passed by my reflection, I had to do a double take.
I straightened my hair again, put on Mimi’s pearls—necklace and earrings she wouldn’t let me leave home without—and at three minutes past eight, there was a knock on the door.
My stomach, already quite tumultuous, did a 180 at the implication. Of Elliot Ashwood here to pick me up.
“You know you have a key, right?” I shouted from the other side of the apartment, trying to calm my nerves by reminding us both that he was my roommate.
I briefly considered wearing the heels he’d gotten me, but I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, nor did I want to risk breaking my ankles in front of a bunch of rich people.
I slipped into a pair of black kitten heels and pulled the door open.
I’d been grinning for the past two hours, so I didn’t blame my smile on seeing him leaning against the railing of the stairway, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed.
He’d redone his hair in what I’d lovingly dubbed the Steven Stewart style.
The top buttons of his black shirt were open, in defiance of the crisp formality of his suit. At least he wasn’t wearing sneakers.
I wasn’t grinning like an idiot because of what he said, either. “Just wanted to do this correctly.”
“This?”
Elliot huffed. “Right. I’m not taking you out,” he remembered.
“Doing it right as in . . . the way fundraiser and gala nights usually go for me. I’m expected to bring a date, which means I’m expected to pick her up.
” He raised his brows like he’d just made a very compelling point.
And I didn’t have it in me to disagree. “Just another thing on my long list of hard duties.”
I faked a pout, patted his shoulder in what should’ve been a teasing gesture.
But instead, the scorching touch seemed to surprise us both.
I took a step back, just to make sure I wasn’t three seconds away from jumping him again.
Steer away from that—and fast. “You get all your dates Ashwood dresses every time, too?”
“Only the special ones.” With a laugh, he gestured down the stairs, letting me go first. “No one’s worn them as well as you are, though.”
My cheeks warmed, my ears flushed, and I desperately wanted to kiss him. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, very deliberately, and asked a question I already knew the answer to: “Are you flirting with me, Ashwood?”
“Have been for a while. Thanks for noticing.”
His hand found the small of my back, and he led me down another flight before slipping it into mine so casually, I wasn’t sure he even noticed.
I did. My stomach and heart did, too.
Kissing him earlier had unleashed a desire I’d buried and denied for the past five years. Maybe ten. One that just couldn’t resist Elliot Ashwood, and with every touch wasn’t just reawakened, but fueled.
“I still get the car for public outings,” he noted. “No chauffeur, though, so you’ll have to make do with my driving.”
I was about to ask if I should be worried, but the question got stuck in my throat as he opened the door and revealed what was undeniably his car, lazily parked on the curb. Like it didn’t cost more than the entire building’s rent for the month.
I wasn’t an expert, but even I recognized the Porsche logo.
Low, sporty, red-wine colored. Sleek and luxurious and special.
So special, a group of eighth graders had stopped beside it, marveling so loudly we could still hear them from the top of the stoop.
“Whose do you think it is?” one of them asked.
I took my hand out of Elliot’s just before he announced our presence. It was the right thing to do, I think. We weren’t together. Not like that. “That would be us,” he said.
Us.
Not his or his family’s or, God forbid, a loud demand that they scram. Just us.
The four boys turned, eyes wide as saucers, their mouths the same shape. Finally, when he’d made his way down to the car, the smallest of them worked up the courage to say, “It’s sick.”
Another one hastily added “Sir!” in sync with a slap to the first boy’s head for forgetting his manners. Instinctively, the smallest repeated “Sir!” before rubbing the back of his head.
Elliot huffed in amusement, but the sound was much gentler than I was used to. With the press of a button, he unlocked the car, and the doors automatically opened upward. “Wanna have a look inside?”
With gasps and repeated thank-yous, they scrambled for a look on the driver’s side. Then they took pictures of one another standing in front of it.
I stopped beside Elliot, just watching him watch them. With a dreamy smile on his lips, he played along whenever they looked his way, nodding proudly or answering their questions as they grew more comfortable.
How much did it cost? A lot.
How loud is it? Very.
“Can you rev it up for us? Just once?”
“Shouldn’t do that when the engine’s cold,” he said. His sheer presence had the boys take a step back, trying to hide their disappointment. “But,” he added, and nodded for me to get in, “good thing this baby’s warm and ready.”
The words shouldn’t have sounded so hot coming out of his mouth. He was talking about a car, of all things.
But being good with children wasn’t something I expected from Elliot Ashwood.
Inside, my eyes flicked through the interior.
The cream-colored leather of the seats contrasted with the deep, wine-red console perfectly.
When my gaze wandered to the steering wheel, I realized there was a bow accenting the usual Porsche logo, and the kids’ exaggerated reaction made sense, suddenly.
I’d never paid much attention to the Ashwood empire beyond their fashion impact, but everyone knew they had their fingers in every industry possible. Luxury cars were part of that, too, and only five of this one were ever made.
By the time Elliot got in on the other side, I was actually cool, calm, and collected again. He let the windows down.
The boys were back on the sidewalk, phones out, cameras on the car. To their delight, Elliot revved the engine once, twice, and a third time before driving off. Faster than he should’ve, but you could still hear cheers a block away, so I didn’t say anything.
“Compliment a man’s car and you’ll make his day,” I said when I realized they weren’t the only ones thrilled by the interaction. Elliot’s eyes radiated pure joy, making their blue sparkle.
“Look.” He laughed defensively, but sobered quickly. “Things like this have always been . . . normal for me. I grew up with loud cars, expensive leather, and five-hundred-horsepower engines. It’s nice to see it being appreciated. Reminds me to do the same sometimes.”
Fair enough, I thought. So, he wasn’t a completely lost cause.
“So, yes, making their day made my day,” he added.
“Speaking of your day,” I prefaced as we stopped at a red light. “You were in the office the whole time—”
“Keeping tabs on me already?”
I rolled my eyes, gestured to the dress. “How’d you manage to get this in my room?”
“It’s a secret.”
I cringed, hated even asking. “Allegra?”
“Maeve!” he gasped. “You think I made my ex-girlfriend get you a dress?” He sounded genuinely offended. “Who do you think I am? The devil?”
“You’d be shocked by the kind of guys roaming the streets.” I’d heard enough horror stories to know that making your ex get another girl a dress would’ve been tame stuff.
He sounded sincere when he said, “I’d hope you don’t think I’m that kind of guy?”
Unfortunately, I didn’t. With every fiber of my being, and no matter how hard I tried to resist it, I believed he was a good guy. A good person, even. Which sucked, because surely Camila hadn’t warned me about him for nothing.
Behind Good Guy Elliot could hide a scheming little snake, and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.
Despite that, I answered from the heart. “No, I don’t think you are.”
The light turned green, and we were moving again. Elliot’s eyes were back on the road, and mine were still on him. The only thing that managed to draw them away was my phone, vibrating in my purse. I was endlessly grateful for the distraction.
PAULA, now
> You okay??
> It’s 8:05 and you’re never late
> Or forget to call
I never forgot anything, but I had. The way I’d forgotten my grandparents way too many times since moving to New York, too.
The thought of jumping out of Elliot’s moving car to call both of them in what would probably go down in history as the messiest teleconference of our time was . . . enticing. For now, I settled on my fingers flying across the keyboard on my phone.
ME, now
> Oh my God.
> I’m so sorry honey!!! I’ve been so busy
> We’ll have to catch up ASAP, I’m fully booked tonight tho
PAULA, now
> You’ve replaced me with cool fashion friends who don’t want to wear sweatpants on a first date, haven’t you?
> Or! Wait! *Is* it a first date???
Before I could promptly deny that theory, she doubled down.
PAULA, now
> Maeve Peterson . . . Did you meet someone and not immediately emergency-text me? Are you gatekeeping her??
> Or did you just finally realize sex-in-supply-closet and ass-on-printer accusations are worth Elliot Ashwood?
She was joking. I think. My fingers flew across my screen regardless, and my face felt hot simply because she’d brought those thoughts of him back to the forefront of my mind.
ME, now
> Maybe you should give up journalism and start writing fanfiction about the guy
> It’s work. Promise I’ll call tomorrow! x
I wasn’t sure if it was just because I knew what kind of car we were sitting in, but it felt like we were extra fast. Like one minute we were driving through the heart of SoHo, and the next we were in Brooklyn.
Like one minute I’d been frantically texting my best friend, and the next I’d pocketed my phone and we were pulling up to a tall building.
The red carpet in front of it let me know we were in the right place and sent my pulse through the roof.