Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“You’re stalling,” he says. “Do you hate it?”
I unzip the dress and carefully step into it.
It’s longer than I expected, reaching my knees, but his shopper was right about the undergarments, because this dress fits like a glove and the fine black fabric will show any lump or bump beneath it. Reaching behind myself, I get the zipper halfway up before I’m stuck. The dress is too tight for me to zip it by myself if I don’t want to risk popping a seam.
“I’ll need help zipping it the rest of the way.”
“No problem,” he says tersely.
“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to bring that smile back to his voice. “Have you ever zipped up a woman’s dress before?”
“Pretty sure I can manage,” he mutters.
Okay. So we’re back to Grumpy Oliver. I pull out the shoes. Classic black, but with the telltale red sole to make sure the world knows I’m wearing thousand-dollar heels. They fit perfectly and are surprisingly comfortable for the height. “Do you want me to put on the jewelry?” I ask.
“Do you typically have trouble fitting into earrings?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. Fine. We’ll skip the jewelry. Turning, I look myself over in the mirror and imagine a little sparkle at my neck and ears, my makeup done, my hair . . . up, I think? I’ll ask Oliver, since he’s so sure he knows what Mr. Businessman is into. I pull the bedroom door open and find him leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.
He straightens and twirls his finger in the air, indicating I should spin around. Obediently, I give him my back. His fingers brush the bare skin between my shoulder blades as he closes the zipper, and I shiver softly.
When I face him again, he’s already sweeping his gaze over me.
“Good. Be ready to leave at four Thursday. I’ve gotten a room so you can change when we get there.”
He turns away and heads back to the kitchen, and I swallow down a burn of . . . not rejection. He didn’t buy this for himself. And yet I thought he might take a moment to appreciate it.
Then his words click in my mind. “Wait. A room? Are we spending the night?” In a hotel room. Together?
Oliver stops at the end of the hall, and his shoulders rise and fall. “I’m not Prince Charming and this isn’t a fairy tale, Savannah. So quit imagining this might turn into something you can enjoy.”
I’m grateful he has his back to me, because I don’t want him to see the embarrassment that’s making my cheeks flame. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
He glances over his shoulder and arches a brow. Fucking asshole. “This is work, not one of your books.”
“And what kind of work will I be doing with this man by talking to him?”
“Leave the details to me.”
I bite back a frustrated growl. “Got it.” I stride into the bedroom and slam the door behind me only to realize I can’t unzip this dress by myself. “Oliver!” I call. “Get back here and help me out of this dress.”
I open the door to find him already standing on the other side, cocky smile in place.
“Maybe you could learn something from those books of yours,” he says.
“What?”
“I bet the heroine in your audiobook at least said please when she asked Arturo to undress her.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to forget you heard that.”
His gray eyes dance. God, he’s even sexier when he’s laughing. “Never said I would.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OLIVER
Beautiful. Fucking rip-my-heart-out beautiful.
That’s how Savannah looks in that dress. Those heels. Even the fucking earrings are sexy on her—a tiny string of diamonds that emphasizes the smooth length of her neck.
“You’re going to return these, right?” she asked when she put them on.
I shrugged. “Probably not. You’ll wear them again when we come back.”
The day has finally come, and I hate everything about it. Everything except that I know it will work. Her beauty, her age, her name. She’s perfect, and he’ll see that right away. In the end, I’ll have what I need. And then I’ll be free. Finally.
She’s bent forward slightly, looking in the full-length mirror inside our hotel room as she applies a second coat of red lipstick, and it takes everything in me to resist the urge to step close behind her and settle my hands at her hips. I have little doubt her ass would feel perfect nestled against my groin, and even less that she’d like my hands on her.
Instead, I keep my back pressed against the door, fearing that lingering too close to the bed might put ideas in my head.
I paid for this room for the night—it’s not exactly the kind of place that rents by the hour—and part of me wants to forget our plan and keep her here. Strip her out of that sinful fucking dress and replace that clinging fabric with the touch of my roaming hands.