Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Noelle
Jacob McCallister is becoming the bane of my existence.
I’ve been doing my best this week to avoid him. Leaving my place early, coming back late. Hiding during my shifts at the coffee shop. Except today, it was nearly impossible.
It’s Friday, and people need more caffeine than oxygen, so the shop was so busy I didn’t spot him when he arrived. I couldn’t even hide in the kitchen until he was gone. I know, very mature, but I was hoping to avoid him, head to Maple Ridge tomorrow morning, and then just tell him on Monday that I’m too busy to . . . well, anything.
And by anything, I mean avoiding the very real, very urgent temptation of wanting him to kiss me, lick me . . . fuck me. Because if I have to endure another night with my vibrator—Captain Buzz Lightmyyear—while imagining just how damn good Jacob McCallister probably is in bed, I’m going to lose it. I’ll end up begging him to screw me senseless, and I cannot let that happen.
Yet, here I am wasting one of my favorite times of the week.
If you’re wondering how I’m spending my Friday afternoon, it’s not relaxing with a good book, not catching up with friends—nope. I’m in my bedroom with Jacob McCallister. And before you get all excited about what might come next, no, we’re not having sex. Far from it.
He brought a style consultant over so we can find the perfect dress together for tomorrow. And I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that I agreed to this, or the fact that he’s here, sitting on my bed, grumbling under his breath while I twirl around in yet another dress that, according to him, is “okay at best.”
I glance at him through the mirror, hands on my hips. “Maybe you should go solo,” I suggest, half-seriously. “Or, better yet, let me just wear the little black dress I showed you earlier. Problem solved.”
“It’s black tie,” he snaps, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
“Then what about the blue dress? You know, the one with the ombré flowers?” I say. “It was practically perfect.”
“We don’t have a seamstress who can fix the dress by tomorrow,” the stylist, whose name I didn’t catch and am now too afraid to ask, chimes in apologetically. “But I have two or three other options that could work for you.”
I resist the urge to say that since there’s no dress we should cancel this whole thing when Jacob says, “See, we have more dresses.”
Of course, we do. The consultant is fluffing the skirt of the current dress I’m wearing, a little too much drama for my taste. “This one’s . . . too much.”
Before I can blink, the stylist orders Jacob to leave again, shooing him toward the living room while I slip into yet another dress—my tenth for the day. I’m barely out of one before she rushes back in, holding a new dress up as if it’s the Holy Grail of gowns.
It’s stunning—a strapless black and metallic floral jacquard gown with a structured bodice that leaves my neck and shoulders bare. The bodice hugs my torso snugly, accentuating every curve, while soft pleats cascade from my waist, giving the skirt a dreamy, ethereal movement. The fabric glimmers as it catches the light, and the floral pattern adds an elegant, timeless feel that instantly makes me think, this is the one.
She helps me slip into it, and when I step in front of the mirror, I can’t help but stare. The dress hugs me perfectly, the weight of the luxurious fabric settling around me like a second skin. It’s heavy in the way that expensive dresses are supposed to be—rich, substantial—and the metallic threads woven into the floral shimmer with every slight move I make. I feel . . . like a princess. No, better than that. I feel magical.
I twirl a little, watching the skirt fan out around me in soft waves, and for a second, I forget about Jacob, about the tension, about the million little things running through my head. It’s just me and this perfect dress.
I don’t even realize when Jacob re-enters the room, his heavy footsteps going unnoticed until I stop spinning and catch his reflection behind me in the mirror. He’s standing a few steps away, staring at me like I’m the only person in the world. His usual brooding expression is gone, replaced by something deeper, something intense, as his eyes travel up and down, taking in every inch of me in this gown.
The stylist beams, clearly proud of her choice. “This is the one,” she says with confidence. “It fits like a glove.”
Jacob doesn’t say anything, still locked in place, his gaze fixed on me like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“And,” the stylist adds with a knowing smile, “I have the perfect shoes to match.” She hurries to grab a pair of sandals, holding them up like the final piece of the puzzle. They’re stunning—sleek, silk sandals with a delicate crisscross design and an elegant stiletto heel. The silk has a subtle sheen that perfectly complements the metallic shimmer of the dress.
“These are sustainable silk,” the stylist explains as she places them on the floor for me to try on. “Prota Fiori, Juniper sandals. They’ll finish the look beautifully.”
I slip them on, the soft silk wrapping around my feet comfortably despite the height of the heel. I take a few steps, feeling how the dress moves with me, and glance back at Jacob. He’s still staring, his jaw clenched, his hands stuffed in his pockets as though he’s holding himself back.
“Well?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, half-expecting some gruff comment about how it’s “fine” or “good enough.”
But Jacob’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low, almost hoarse. “You look . . . stunning.”
I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Really?”
He nods, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah. It’s . . . perfect.”
For a moment, everything else fades away. The grumpiness, the sarcasm, the bickering—it’s all gone, replaced by the quiet intensity in his eyes. And just like that, I realize that maybe, just maybe, this is more than a dress, more than a gala and I don’t think I’m ready for any of it.