Page 30 of His Vow

He kissed my forehead, stepped toward his car, then turned back and pointed at Nolan. "Dinner on Sunday. Both of you." His eyes crinkled. "You're family now, son."

The car pulled away. The street settled into quiet. Just us, the cold wind tugging at my hem.

Nolan's hand found mine. Not a reach, but a decision. His fingers laced through, his thumb pressing against my knuckle. I looked down at our hands, then up at his face. His eyes were on me.

"You're wearing black again," I said, running my free hand down his lapel.

He looked down at my fingers on his jacket. "You're surprised again."

"I'm going to fix this." I tugged his hand. "Right now."

He didn't move. "Fix what?"

"Your entire aesthetic. It's a crisis." I pulled harder. His feet stayed planted, his eyebrow lifting. "Nolan. Come."

"I'm not a dog."

"Then stop standing there like one who's been told to stay." I yanked his arm. He let himself be pulled, shaking his head, his jaw tight.

The boutique was four blocks south. Wide windows, soft lighting, a place where they brought you water in a glass tumbler before you'd touched a single rack. A woman with cropped silver hair and red-framed glasses looked up from behind the counter.

"Welcome. Can I help you?"

"We need everything." I released Nolan's hand and walked straight to the men's wall. "He's been wearing the same color his entire life."

Nolan looked at the woman. She looked at him — the black suit, the black shirt, the black shoes. She pressed her lips together. "I see."

"She's exaggerating," Nolan said.

I was already at the rack, my fingers sliding across fabrics. Linen. Cotton. A cashmere blend so soft I stopped and pressed it against my cheek, closing my eyes for a second before pulling it off the rail. Navy. Rich and deep. I turned, crossed back to him, and held the jacket against his chest with one hand. My other hand found his shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle as I studied the color against his skin.

"This," I said.

He looked at the jacket. Looked at me. His mouth was a flat line. "No."

"You haven't even tried it."

"I don't need to try it. I don't wear blue." He crossed his arms, the fabric straining at his biceps. "Blue is not happening."

"You don't wear anything that isn't a funeral color." I pushed the jacket into his crossed arms, forcing him to uncross them to catch it. "That's why I'm here."

I turned back to the rack before he could argue. A shirt — pale blue, open weave, the fabric nearly translucent when I held it to the light. I pressed it against his chest beside the jacket, my head tilting as I studied the combination. My lower lip found its way between my teeth.

His eyes dropped to my mouth — lingering on the lip, staying a beat past accidental. My fingers tightened on the shirt. When I looked up, he was already looking at my eyes, but we both knew where he'd just been.

"Try these." I shoved the stack into his arms. He took it, his jaw shifting, and walked toward the fitting rooms with the posture of a man approaching his own execution.

I turned to the women's section. Drifted through silk blouses, a cashmere cardigan, and a wrap dress in charcoal. My fingers stopped near the back wall.

Black lace. A bralette and matching briefs, delicate, the lace so fine the fabric was nearly sheer. I lifted the hanger from the rack and ran my thumb along the edge of the lace. The craftsmanship was exquisite. The price tag was absurd.

I turned.

Nolan was outside the fitting room, the navy jacket draped over his arm, watching me from across the store. Twenty feet of polished floor between us. His weight shifted to one hip. His eyes were steady, dark, locked on me.

I held the lingerie up, said nothing, and tilted my head — a question. A dare. My eyebrows lifted a fraction.

His jaw worked. His eyes traveled from my face to the lace in my hand. Slowly. Then back to my face. He didn't blink. His fingers tightened on the jacket, the fabric bunching in his grip.