She took a deep, fortifying breath and channelled Beyonce.Shewouldn’t let this shit get the better of her, so neither would Netta. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
NETTA
Both Valerie Salt and her studio were the embodiment of pure minimalist cool, so naturally Netta felt like a hot mess by comparison. The walls were a tasteful shade of sage, the floors were dark polished concrete and the only piece of furniture in the room was a lowline couch upholstered in tan leather. In front of the couch was a crisp white drape and behind that crisp white drape, Mo was getting changed into the beautiful black suit Valerie had designed for him.
Netta sat awkwardly on the couch, clutching a bone china tea cup containing herbal tea that smelled like potting mix. At least the sense of dread she’d felt on the way had had the manners to wait for her out on the street. Here, held within Valerie’s studio, she felt mercifully separate from the world outside. She took a sip of tea and recoiled. It didn’t just smell like potting mix.
Valerie and her assistant, both dressed in head-to-toe black and impossibly hip glasses, stood to Netta’s right, waiting for Mo to emerge. The clank of his belt buckle hitting the floor and the shuffling of fabric from within the dressing room hinted at his clotheslessness behind the curtain and Netta shifted on the couch, suppressing a jolt of desire.
‘How’s it going in there, Mr Maplestone?’ asked Valerie in her low, measured voice. ‘Would you like my assistant to help you into the suit?’
‘Ah, no. I think I can manage on my own.’
Netta held back a smile as Valerie’s assistant, who’d looked quite keen on the idea of helping Mo get dressed, wandered away to the other room in a droop of disappointment.
She took another tiny sip of the tea to be polite and choked as Mo swept the drape back to reveal his fine, suited self. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders and tapered to follow the line of his back. The pants—well, Netta had no idea that pants could be so sexy. The waistline sat at the perfect level to make any hotblooded person wonder what was underneath, and the crisp white shirt tucked into it set off his tanned skin and showed just enough of the tattoo creeping from his chest to his left collarbone to make undoing the buttons to see the whole thing unbearably tempting.
Netta swallowed hard.
Valerie cast an approving eye over the outfit. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Like a million bucks,’ said Mo, smiling.
‘And the lining? You like it?’
Mo lifted one side of the jacket to reveal a glorious silk tartan in rich hues of red and green. He grinned. ‘Very Christmassy. Thanks, Valerie, you’re a marvel.’
Valerie almost smiled. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Take it off and I’ll have it wrapped up so you can take it with you today.’
Valerie walked away and Mo turned to Netta. ‘Is it okay, you think?’ He held his arms out and looked down at himself. ‘Not too showy?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Netta. ‘Honestly, you should probably think about wearing suits more often.’
Mo laughed. ‘What? My standard old jeans and jumper not doing it for you?’
The truth was, Mo in a leotard would do it for her, but her attraction to him was so excruciatingly predictable. Women like Netta lusting after him, cooking up grand delusions of something more, would be as boringly common to him as night following day.
‘I’m just saying, it’s a very nice upgrade.’
‘How’s the tea?’ he asked with a smirk, gesturing towards her still-full cup.
Netta checked Valerie wasn’t returning then leaned towards Mo. ‘It tastes like dirty grass or something,’ she whispered, wrinkling her nose. ‘But, like,expensivedirty grass.’
‘I should’ve warned you about it before we came,’ Mo said. ‘It’s terrible, but I’m actually pretty sure it’s the only thing Valerie’s consumed since the nineties.’
‘That would explain her thinness.’
Mo grinned. ‘And her mood.’
He disappeared behind the curtain again and Netta got up and paced around the studio to dissuade her insubordinate traitor of a brain from whizzing up a delicious visual of Mo peeling off the suit. After all, it would be Lorena tearing it off him after the gala, not Netta. Once the gala was over and done with, Netta—and whatever this thing was—would be too.
Valerie returned and whisked the suit away from Mo as he emerged from the dressing room in his normal clothes.
‘Car’s already out front,’ he said as they walked towards the door.
Valerie reappeared with the suit tucked safely inside a heavy canvas bag. ‘Take it out and hang it as soon as you’re home,’ she said. ‘Let it breathe. Let it absorb your energy so it is at one with you on the night.’
