Page 69 of The Beat Match

She regarded her visitor warily. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I was told you were tall and beautiful, with hazel eyes that changed with your mood and a sexy birthmark by the corner of your lips.” She smiled. “The description fits.”

Her Secret Santa must be at it again, and Annie reverted to moony status. She took the flat red box. The woman bowed slightly, then disappeared down the stairs while Annie tried to fight her giddiness. Wes’s gifts were constant and unnecessary, but she loved that he was always thinking of her. He chose perfect presents, as though he could read her mind, because he knew her at her core. It was his way of saying “I love you” without speaking the words. At least, she hoped it was.

The card on the box read: Meet me at eight.

Below was an address to a swanky restaurant, and her pulse tremored. They hadn’t been out in public yet. The Rosanna break-up had been front and center in gossip rags. He hadn’t wanted to put Annie through that kind of scrutiny. She’d been happy keeping Weston Aldrich to herself. But this felt right. An excuse to flaunt the man of her dreams.

She undid the silky ribbon, set it aside for a future scrapbooking project, then lifted the lid and gasped.

She knew this dress, but it couldn’t be here, in this box, in her shabby apartment. This was a Met Gala dress. A show-stopping stunner. She’d gone gaga over it when flipping through a Vogue issue. But how could Wes have known she’d coveted the fun, flirty fabric and pictured herself wearing the bold, cherry printed maxi dress, all that scrunched black lace funking up the style? Classic Betsy Johnson. Lightyears beyond her measly budget.

Then she remembered. The night she’d forced him to scrapbook. She’d told him not to use that page, that she loved the dress in the ad. Just one mention, off the cuff.

Now the dress was in her hands.

She pulled it out gingerly, danced around the room like she was Cinderella and this was her coming-out ball. She found her phone and dialed.

“I was thinking about you.” Wes always answered his phone like that these days.

She hugged the stunning dress to her body. “How’d you find it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s too much.”

“Still in the dark.”

“How’d you even remember?”

Silence for a beat, then, “I remember everything about you, Squirrel.”

God, this man. “It really is too much. I can’t accept it.”

“I have to work late, so I’ll meet you at the restaurant. My driver will pick you up.”

“Weston Aldrich, you’re ignoring me.”

“I’m doing no such thing.”

She sighed, caressing the fabric in her hands. “How am I supposed to compete with this? I can’t afford to buy you things.”

“I don’t need anything but you.”

Those blasted tears returned.

Several hours later she walked into the restaurant feeling like a Disney princess. Her dress slinked around her body, her hair twisted into a low chignon, a few loose strands framing her face. Wes was at the bar along the wall, sipping what looked like Scotch. His charcoal suit was impeccable as always, the expensive fabric accommodating his broad shoulders and powerful thighs. He was intent on his phone, a familiar scowl making him look slightly vicious. She knew that look. It was the one she’d seen sporadically since they had made up in his office.

The second he saw her, the scowl fell. He scanned her from head to toe, a lecherous grin spreading. He placed his glass down and walked over as though she were the only person in the boisterous room. One arm latched around her back, he pulled her close and kissed her brazenly, not a care to their audience.

“You look good enough to eat,” he murmured in her ear.

“If you ruin a stitch on this dress, I’ll torch your closet. Every last designer piece.”

He laughed. “Noted.”

She used her thumb to wipe her lipstick off his lips. “Were you waiting long?”