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“We have to stop and get you something to wear for tonight after this,” Sam urges.
I laugh when she insists, and I nod, agreeing. I want something new to feel invincible. New clothes always do that to me. I need something professional, something that will tell Blake I’m only there for business. I’m not there for him to charm me.
But I have a feeling it might be easier said than done.
*
When I climb out of the cab, Blake is already in front of Lavande, waiting for me. He wears a black suit with a butter-yellow tie, and he looksedible. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back and he looks like James Bond. Hot and delicious and collected.
“You look beautiful,” he says when I walk to him.
I smile, blushing lightly.
Sam helped me find a dress that’s supposed to be professional and subtle, not in-your-face sexy. The navy-blue number I wriggled into just before I left has a square neckline with capped sleeves and it fits me like a glove, hitting me mid-thigh. I paired it with black heels, higher than I’ll wear during the day, but they’re closed, not strappy.
I’m trying to send a message.
When Blake drags his eyes over my body, his eyes turning primal, I think I might have missed the mark—he’s getting a different message than I hoped I would send.
And my stomach turns, clenching with desire. I feel the same primal need I see in his eyes.
When he steps closer, Blake puts a hand on my hip and leans in, kissing my cheek. It’s a chaste kiss, but the sexual tension that clings to Blake, the way he lingers afterward, makes it as dirty as if we were naked together, alone.
And I wish weweretogether, alone, naked.
“Shall we?” Blake asks in a thick voice and he holds out an arm. I loop my hand around his elbow and Blake escorts me to the seating hostess, who takes us to a table. She doesn’t say much; she only glares daggers at me before she leaves.
“So,” I say after Blake orders wine—Chenin Blanc, he remembered. “I already collected a few things for your wardrobe that I think you’ll be happy with. I can show you—”
“Are you happy with him?”
“Who?” I ask, confused by the question he interrupted me with.
“Alex Evans. The journalist you’re dating.”
“Oh… we’re not together,” I say.
Blake frowns. “No?”
I shake my head. “He’s my best friend’s brother. He’s like my own brother in a lot of ways. He escorted me to the event because he wanted to write an article about it, and I happened to have an extra ticket. But we’re not… there’s nothing there.”
I can’t tell what Blake’s thinking. His gray eyes are pensive and he clenches his jaw. It makes him look handsome as hell.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, the wardrobe. I—"
“I don’t want to talk about business right now,” Blake says.
“Oh?” I blink at him. I wanted this to be a business dinner because the alternative is getting up close and personal.
“Tell me about Paris.”
I smile, thinking about the city I practically grew up in.
“It can be magical,” I say. “It’s like a fairytale, romantic, the kind of place people go to find love. Or celebrate it.”
“Even when you live there?” Blake asks.
I nod. “I think it’s because of the whole tourism industry. They’re all capitalizing on the idea of love, and the tourists buy into it. But when they arrive with stars in their eyes, ready to celebrate love, it’s contagious. It’s impossible not to catch it.”
