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"I'm not."

"You are." She steps closer, like now she's the one in control. "You're staring like I'm something you want and can't have. It's a good look on you." She tilts her chin. "Better than the one you gave Elio."

I want the cigarette I just put out. I want, God help me, to lay my hand flat against the bare skin of her back. To feel the silky skin there. To feel her breathe.

I force both hands at my sides.

"The car," I say again. "We'll be late."

"We're not going to be late, Valentino." She's smiling fully now, delighted, because she's found the crack. She's pressing her thumb into it the way I pressed mine to her throat.

I open the passenger door. The interior light spills out over her, over that long line of her, and she slides in past me, close enough that her bare shoulder brushes my chest. The heat of her skin goes straight through the wool of my suit like the fabric isn't even there.

She settles into the seat and looks up at me through her lashes. "Are you going to buckle me in again?" she asks softly. "Or is that only for special occasions?"

I shut the door without answering, then stand on the curb for one second longer than I should, breathing the night air, telling myself the only thing I can.

It's only work.

Amanda

I keep my eyes on the window. The wet streets of Milan slide by in smears of gold and red, headlights bleeding across the glass, and I tell myself the knot in my stomach is excitement.

I've charmed editors who eat junior marketers for breakfast. I once talked a Vogue stylist out of a tantrum using nothing but a compliment and a perfectly timed joke. Working the room is my home court.

So why are my palms damp?

"You're quiet," Valentino says.

"I'm conserving my charm for the people who matter," I say, but the joke lands flat even to me.

He glances over. His eyes catch the streetlight and go from coal-black to something warmer for half a second, then he's watching the road again. "The people who matter."

"The Casa Aurelia board. The European retail buyers. There's a woman coming tonight named Francesca Renaud who can make or break the entire spring rollout with one phone call." I twist the strap of my clutch around my finger. "I've been building toward this for two years. So yes. The people who matter."

He doesn't answer. He just pulls the car up to the curb where the palazzo glows like something out of a fairy tale. Valets in black move like shadows. Somewhere inside, the future of my career is drinking champagne and forming opinions.

A man opens my door before I can step out. My heel slips on the wet stone, and for one humiliating second, the whole world tilts.

Then Valentino's hand is on the small of my back.

His palm presses flat against my bare skin, calluses catching slightly against my skin. A current shoots straight up my spine and scatters every thought I've ever had.

I forget all the names that should matter, including my own.

"Okay?" he asks, low, just for me.

"Fine," I manage. "These shoes are a war crime."

He doesn't smile, but something near it twitches at the corner. He doesn't take his hand away. Instead, he guides me up the steps, his touch steady, and I am hyperaware of every inch of contact. Of the way his fingers spread to cover more of me. How my body leans into the pressure like I've been waiting my whole life for this.

The problem is, I have.

I straighten my spine, putting on a professional smile. The one I've practiced in a thousand mirrors. The look that says I belong here, I built this, watch me own it. But underneath it my heart is hammering like I'm nineteen again, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why tonight, of all nights, my armor feels thin.

Maybe it's his hand. The way it rests against my spine, almost protective. Almost possessive.

Or maybe it's earlier outside the hotel, when he saw the back of my dress and forgot that seasoned control.