ME: I have to go. Victor's picking me up in 10 minutes.
AMELIA: "Picking you up" like a DATE???
ME: Like a colleague providing transportation.
AMELIA: Worst liar ever
I pocket my phone and take one last look in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is someone I barely recognize. Polished. Elegant. The kind of woman who belongs on the arm of a billionaire CEO.
Except I'm not that woman.
I'm Harper Beaumont, who thinks in recipes and imagines different ways of making poutine at midnight and talks to her plants and once cried during a particularly emotional episode of Queer Eye about a guy organizing his garage.
I'm about to face-plant into a full panic attack when there's a knock at my door.
"Harper?" Victor's voice, muffled through the wood. "Car's here."
I grab my clutch—also courtesy of Simone—and open the door.
Tall, muscular, and regal, Victor kade is standing in the hallway in a tuxedo that could double as a cautionary tale.
I've seen him in suits. I see him in suits every day. But this is different.
His tuxedo is James Bond levels of formal, all sharp lines and perfect tailoring, complete with a brand of devastating elegance that makes my tongue forget how to work.
His broad shoulders are the picture of masculinity, filling out the dark fabric. Dark hair sleek and styled, his gravel-gray eyes are more blue than usual. And they’re doing that thing where they see way too darn much. And he's looking at me like?—
Like he did in the boutique.
My body answers before my mouth does.
"Hi," I exhale.
"Hi. You look..."
"Appropriate?" I supply, because clearly I'm still bitter about earlier.
His mouth twitches. "I was going to say beautiful."
Oh.
Oh no.
"Thank you," I say, trying to ignore the way my heart just did something acrobatic. "You look very... tuxedo-y."
"Tuxedo-y?"
"It's a word."
"It's not."
"It is now."
We stand there in the hallway, both of us barely breathing, the ghost of our kiss still lingering in the air between us.
“You were right. Earlier,” Victor says finally. “You said we should talk. I agree.”
