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“Listen. I’m working. I’m in my zone. You don’t interrupt an artist in the zone. Got that?”
My words are bossy, but my heart is dancing all over the room. My mind has to tell my heart to calm down. “We’ll talk soon. In private.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Chapter Eleven
Bishop
She said soon. She didn’t say how soon.
I drive myself mad, pacing back and forth in my hotel suite.
If she thinks I’m going to eat or sleep, she’s lost her mind.
Then I remember the other thing she said. Shower? Shower. I can do that. I might not have remembered to send my suit out for dry cleaning, and I might have misplaced my razor. But even in my addled state of mind after confessing my love to her only to be shot down—was I shot down? I can’t quite tell for sure—I think showering might be a good idea. I remember how to do that.
The shower running over my body wakes me up, bringing to mind Cherise’s flushed cheeks, her flashing eyes, her excitement to show me and have me try new things each time I walked into her kitchen.
The aching length of cock between my legs points to the ceiling, twitching every time I close my eyes under the spray. Because every time I close my eyes, all I see is Cherise. I slide my wet palm up the underside of my hard shaft, knowing that it’s never going to be enough.
Spitting out a curse, I let go of it after two or three more strokes. I’d rather wait frustrated than go to sleep relieved but without her.
I know I’m supposed to wait for her to come to me so we can talk. But I’m done with that. I’m not waiting another second. She finished the breakfast shift hours ago, and I’m still here, waiting. Showered, I barely take a moment to dry off, throw on my pajama bottoms and park myself in front of the TV.
Who am I kidding?
I check the schedule in my email that Henrietta sent last week that I never checked. She wouldn’t still be trying on a dress, would she? She would have no reason to.
“12 p.m. Fitting at Tania’s Bridal.”
I know exactly where that is.
Chapter Twelve
Cherise
The dress isn’t my first choice, but it is elegant. The sleek cut hugs my waist and thighs and flares out slightly at the knee. The whole thing moves from side to side when I walk, which is funny to me since my former fiancé liked this dress for its high, modest neckline. I’d never noticed I had a hip sway like Marilyn Monroe until standing and twirling in front of a five-sided mirror.
The dress shop owner sighs. “Too bad you won’t get to wear it in an actual wedding.”
“Someone will, as soon as I decide who to donate it to. Thanks for letting me try it on one last time. It really is pretty.”
I’m admiring myself in the mirror when the shop door opens abruptly, and in walks a tall man with thick, muscular arms and a tee-shirt stretched to the limit over his barrel chest. In the reflection, I see the man look this way and that, and
when he turns my way, we make eye contact in the mirror.
“Bishop! What are you doing here?”
My boss’s thick thighs look like tree trunks as he barrels toward me in jeans. Jeans?
I say, “I didn’t think Orchid did casual Fridays.”
But he’s not listening to me. Bishop is laser-focused on my face while his legs eat up the distance between us. He looks even more fierce than he did this morning; I do get the sense he’s showered, at least. Thank god.
“Take off that dress before I rip it off,” he rumbles.
