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I gave him a closed-fingers shut up sign and said into the phone, “I’m not working with much here. I need the best.”
“Well, there’s no scene in Chicago,” Jewel said, “but if you have to have someone, try Tyrell. He’s the only one I’d trust. Do you have a budget?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then I’ll call him and get him to call you. He won’t make time otherwise.”
“I’m not getting a haircut,” Dane said again.
I gave him the shut up sign again. “You’re a lifesaver, honey, thanks,” I said to Jewel, and hung up. “You’re getting a haircut,” I said to Dane. “Maybe your boring, clingy girlfriends like the man-bun, but it’s going.”
The tailor squawked as Dane pushed him aside, striding toward me in his underwear. He put his hands on the arms of my chair and leaned over me, his eyes on mine. I could see every inch of his naked skin. He glared at me.
“I get it,” he growled. “You’re pushing me. It’s what you do. Are you trying to see how far you can go?”
My voice came out breathy. God, I could smell him. “I’m not doing anything,” I said, and we both knew it was a lie.
“What do you want?” Dane said, thick with frustration. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”
My hands went cold and my breath stopped. “Sorry for what?”
“You know what. Sorry for what I did the last time I saw you.”
He thought he had to apologize for that? As if he had done something wrong? Had he thought that all this time? I couldn’t bear the idea. “No,” I told him. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”
He still watched me, his voice softening a little. “I’ll say it if you want me to.”
“Don’t,” I choked out. “Don’t.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then he shook his head, backing off. “Can I at least put my clothes on now?”
I didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait for it. He grabbed his clothes and shoes and put them under his arm. “I’m going to dress in the men’s room,” he growled. “I’d like some privacy for a second.”
I still couldn’t speak. Dane walked away, and I downed the rest of the champagne in my glass, gulping it. He thought I wanted him to apologize. That fucking man.
That brilliant, stupid, utterly infuriating man.
I put my heels back on and stood up, looking at the suits and fabrics in the room. Now that the measurements were—mostly—done, I talked to the tailor about cuts, fabrics, and colors. Dane would need two suits, I estimated, as well as several sets of dress pants, shirts, and ties, sport jackets, and half-zip sweaters. Socks and shoes. With a week’s lead time, nothing would be custom made, but we had time to alter existing pieces. Then my phone rang, and I talked to Tyrell, the hairstylist, about squeezing Dane in. Only after I hung up did I realize that Dane hadn’t come out of the bathroom, which was around the corner and down the hall.
“Would you like me to go find him?” the tailor asked politely.
“No need,” I said as suspicion bloomed in my gut. I walked around the corner myself, pushing open the door to the men’s room. “Dane!”
The room was empty.
“Fuck,” I said as the tailor came in after me. I turned to him. “Is there a back door?”
He looked stunned. Most likely, none of his rich clients had ever made an escape while getting measured for a bespoke suit. “At the end of the hall,” he said.
“Fuck,” I said again. I half-ran down the hall, moving as fast as I could in my three-inch heels. I slammed the back door open and saw nothing but parking lot.
Dane was gone.
Seven
Dane
* * *
