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“Yes.” His voice lowers. “When we go to the concert, wear something you can dance in. I like watching you dance.”
It’s an innocent enough sentence, but there’s nothing innocent about his voice. Butterflies swarm in my stomach. The back of my neck feels hot.
And then the line goes dead.
The whole day is like that. He yells at me when I accidentally screw up the phone system again. He sends me racing across town to pick up his dry cleaning, just because he can. He’s so impossibly demanding, he makes me want to tear my hair out.
But when I return to the office, Gage’s designer dry-cleaning slung over my shoulder, my favorite blue slushie is waiting for me at my desk. There’s a cheeky, unsigned note tucked beneath it, warning me not to spill it on his carpet again.
I go to toss out the note, but for some inexplicable reason, I slide it into my pocket instead.
As the afternoon goes on, I almost feel like there are two Gages. The one who’s my insufferable boss, and the one who’s courting me. But then I’ll catch the way his eyes glint after he scolds me, and those two sides bleed back into each other. He likes riling me up just as much as he likes spoiling me.
I don’t know what to do with that information.
The last thing Gage sends is a bottle of stunningly expensive perfume, an hour before work ends. I skeptically take it out of its packaging. Guys always think perfume is an easy gift but deciding what scent to wear is so personal. And honestly, I don’t like most perfumes. I’d rather just smell like the cinnamon shampoo I use.
I spray a bit of perfume on a piece of scrap paper and bring it to my nose.
I’m instantly hit with a scent that’s warm, spicy, and comforting all at the same time. It smells like my shampoo, but a million times better.
How could he possibly know thatthiswas what I wanted my perfume to smell like?Ididn’t even know.
My desk phone rings, and I pick it up, knowing without checking that it’s Gage.
“You like the perfume,” he says.
It’s not a question.
His arrogance is annoying. But it’s also really,reallyhot.
I shrug, going for nonchalance. “I haven’t tried it yet. Who knows what it will smell like on me?”
“Good point. You should wear it tonight.” His voice is low and deep in my ear. It feels intimate, like a lover whispering in the sheets.
“Tonight?” My mouth feels dry.
“I’m taking you out to dinner at Sinclair 58,” Gage says, naming a five-star restaurant so trendy even I’ve heard of it. Influencers and paparazzi flock there in equal measure, hoping to catch a glance of a celebrity.
Any woman would be thrilled to go on a date there.
Why do I feel disappointed?
Because it’s the first gift he’s given that isn’t designed to make me feel good,I realize.This one’s for everyone else, to convince them we’re really a couple.
“You can go home early,” Gage tells me. “Take your time getting ready. Pamper yourself.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap that I’m not actually the kind of girl who enjoys spending hours primping for a night out. It just stresses me out.
But Gage is only trying to do what we both agreed to do—Convince the world he’s in love with me.
“Violet?” he prompts, his voice torn between impatience and concern.
“Thanks,” I make myself say. “I’ll see you there.”
And then I hang up the phone and slip the perfume into my purse. As I leave, I remind myself that it’s all fake. If it feels like Gage is getting to know the real me, if it feels like he might actuallyseeme better than any man has before...Well, that’s just a means to an end.
I need to remember that.
