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“No, but that’s not relevant.”
“How is it not relevant?” Realization dawned when he didn’t answer. My anger rose, lifted like a hot cloud, and I dropped my voice to keep from screaming at him in the stairway.
“You cannot actually think I’d ignore Ethan becoming a dictator because I’m sleeping with him. I thought the RG was past that.” Another RG member, Horace, had raised the issue before, and I’d believed we’d resolved it.
“Balthasar wasn’t in the picture then.”
“It’s insulting either way.”
“It’s not meant to be an insult. It’s meant to be a protection.”
“Against what? My inability to logic through hormones?”
“You’re taking this too personally.” He sounded tired again, like a parent talking to a petulant toddler.
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on at Grey House. Maybe you’re distracted; maybe you’re concerned about Scott and the AAM. I don’t know. But you know him better than this, and you certainly know me better than this.” And if he didn’t, it wasn’t flattering for either of us.
“You’re saying you won’t do it.”
“Yeah, I am saying that. We all have lines, Jonah. This is one of mine. I assume you trust me, or you wouldn’t have made me your partner. You think about that, and you let me know.”
And for the first time that I could remember, I hung up on my partner.
Chapter Six
WHAT A DIFFERENCE A NIGHT MAKES
I was still stewing when I made it to the apartments. Ethan was gone, but the garment bag lay on the bed beside a glossy shoe box.
Hoping to direct my anger more productively, I unzipped the bag, half hoping I’d find a voluminous satin gown with mounds of rhinestones to rage against.
But I should have known better. Satin and rhinestones weren’t Ethan’s style.
“Oh,” I said as I unzipped the bag.
The dress was a slender column of black flared at the bottom. The sweetheart bodice was fitted but demure, and two panels of black tulle formed narrow sleeves that just covered the shoulders.
I turned to the box, uncapped it, found a pair of heeled sandals of crisscrossing satin straps that rose to the ankle and tied in a bow. They’d be tricky to walk in¸ but at least the straps would keep them in place if we needed to run.
I laid them out on the bed, climbed into the appropriate undergarments, and went to the bathroom to consider my hair options. My usual option, a high ponytail and bangs, wasn’t going to do it tonight.
I dug through the bathroom drawers until I found a curling iron I’d probably used twice in the last five years. My bangs were long enough to sweep to the side and pin¸ and a few twirls of the iron left my hair in long, tousled curls. Mascara. Lip gloss. A hint of blush across pale cheeks.
And then it was time to don the dress.
I spent two minutes mostly naked in the bedroom, hair curling across my shoulders, staring at the dress.
Was I supposed to step into it? Drag it over my head? Surely the former, but it looked snug enough that I was a little afraid—even with a ballet dancer’s build—that I’d get stuck halfway up.
Unfortunately, time was ticking, so I had to make a call. I let the dress drape to the floor, stepped carefully inside the middle, and began to pull it up the way a woman might don stockings. The dress was fitted, but the fabric had some give to it, so sliding it up wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined.
The zipper was the tricky bit. It ran the length of the back, and even with my relatively long limbs I couldn’t crook my arm enough to get the zipper up more than a few inches.
I was trying what I thought was a very creative approach—lowering the dress, zipping it up halfway, then sliding it carefully upward—when a knock sounded at the door.
“Merit?”
I snapped my hands over my chest as Lindsey’s head popped into the room. The dress hit the floor, puddling at my feet.
