I shift the champagne and knock on the glass.
Her head snaps up. The second her eyes land on me, she lights up; a smile spreads and she bolts for the door. I don’t have time to brace myself before it swings open and she launches into me.
I grunt a laugh, trying not to drop the bottle. “You missed me that much, huh?”
She pulls back just enough to flash me the brightest smile, then steps into the atelier and freezes, brows knitting as suspicion creeps across her face.
“Wait…” she says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “How do you even know where my atelier is?”
“Ihave my ways.”
“That’s creepy!” She points at me — and only then notices what I’m holding. Her eyes scan the champagne and flutes.
“What is this?”
“This is for you.”
When I called from the hotel yesterday, she’d told me everything that went down: the coordinator loved what she showed, the review team didn’t just approve her, they bumped her up. She’s officially locked in for the fashion show. They’re already casting models using her measurements.
“Come in.”
“Lock up for the day,” I say, adjusting the bottle.
“Why?”
“Lock up, Jessica,” I repeat, my heart kicking like I’m about to take a slap shot.
I’ve never done this before. Never felt giddy about a surprise. Never felt my chest tighten wanting someone to see what I set up just for them.
It's a stupid, vulnerable feeling—like I'm standing on the edge of something I want to keep.
Chapter twenty-three
~JESSICA~
I hop out of Dom’s G-Wagon and immediately squint against the blinding, sun-drenched ridiculousness before me.
A house. A huge house. Cream stone, wraparound balcony, double glass doors that reflect us like a mirror. There’s a palm tree that looks custom-landscaped and might just be real.
“Okay,” I say, turning to Dom as he steps out of the car. “What’s going on?”
Dom shuts his door, sunglasses on, and does a slow sweep of the driveway like he’s surveying.
He’s not answering. He hasn’t answered once during our forty-minute drive.
“You know kidnapping is a crime, yes?” I place both hands on my hips.
“You’re the most impatient woman I’ve ever met.”
“I was kidnapped.” I gesture at myself. “Sorry for my curiosity.”
He walks over and takes my hand, and a jolt of something electric runs up my arm.
“Try trusting me for once,” he says, tugging gently.
I look down at his hand on mine, at the Richard Mille on his wrist, and follow as he leads me to the front door. He releases my hand to pull out a key and unlock the door with a loud click.
“Wait… this is your house?”
