Page 12 of The Truth of Us

Her brows rose. “You’re very curious tonight.”

“I am always curious.”

“No,” she said, glancing at me. “You’re usually invasive and charming enough that people mistake it for curiosity.”

I blinked and then laughed, because what the hell else could I do?

“Careful, Harper. You make it sound like you’ve been studying me.”

“I have. It’s my job,” she replied with a tight smile that I was beginning to hate.

“Right.” I leaned back, watching her. “And what has your professional assessment revealed?”

“That you are very good at being liked,” she answered quickly.

“That sounds like a compliment,” I said with my most charming grin.

“It wasn’t,” she said, eyes back outside.

I smiled. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that.”

There it was again, that measured, elegant dismissal that should have irritated me more than it turned me on. But somehow with her… it did both.

The car passed under a canopy of bare trees, the city glowing beyond the glass. Harper sat beside me as if she had been born for cars like this, gowns like that, nights like this. No wide-eyed appreciation or nervous fidgeting. She wasn’t impressed.

That should have bothered me. It didn’t. It made me want to know what would impress her.

“So,” I said, letting my gaze move over her. “You own several gowns?”

Her mouth curved. “That is what I said.”

“And this was just sitting in your closet?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “Where else would my dresses be?”

“Do all PR managers have emergency silk gowns?” I questioned.

“Only the good ones,” she replied, but I caught a hint of a smile.

I huffed a laugh and looked out the window before I did something stupid, like tell her she looked like my every dream come true. Which would be true, and too much… too honest.

The hotel came into view, lit from the outside in warm gold. Cars lined the entrance, drivers and valets moving with practiced efficiency. Flashes popped near the doors, not a true press line, but enough cameras that every arrival became a statement. That was why we were here. Public image, and not because I wanted to walk into a ballroom with Harper Lane on my arm and see who noticed.

The car stopped, but before the driver could open the door, Harper turned toward me. “One thing.”

I glanced at her. “Already giving orders?”

“I’m serious,” she said.

“That’s becoming clear.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Tonight, I’m here in a professional capacity.”

“Of course.” I grinned.

“That means I need to observe the group. Not just stand beside you while you flirt with donors and make vague promises about corporate responsibility.”