AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Usually, I don't wear orange, but I asked for her expertise. I should trust it. I hate when artists don't trust my skill with lyrics. Why hire someone to ignore them?
Trust isn't my natural instinct, even with my sister, but I push aside my doubt anyway. Trust.
I can do trust.
In theory.
I turn my back to the front door, and I do away with my tank top and bra.
My skin flushes at the thought of Damon upstairs. He's close. Too close. He could easily step into the hallway and watch.
My blush deepens as I slide out of my jeans too.
The heat stays as I slip into the dress. Sure, I'm not naked anymore, but I'm still dressed for sex appeal.
Silky fabric, low back, high neck, long skirt. An adult elegance. It shows enough skin to hint at dirty thoughts and covers enough to claim innocence.
Laurel is good at this.
But I can't reach the buttons to secure the high neck.
Right on cue, a door opens upstairs. Damon moves into the hall with heavy steps. He carries a three-panel mirror down the stairs and sets it down in the living room, between the couch and the piano.
His eyes find mine through the mirror. His pupils widen. His jaw drops. "Fuck, Cass." His voice drops to a breathy tone. One that screams I want you out of that dress, now. "You look hot."
My cheeks flush. "Like an elegant artist?"
"Hot as fuck." He moves around the couch so he's behind me. "Do you need help?"
"Yeah. The buttons." I point to the top of the dress.
He moves closer, close enough to touch me. He brushes my hair over my shoulder.
His breath warms my neck. His fingers skim my skin. The bottom of my neck. Then my back. The sides of the dress.
My body hums. My stomach flutters. Which part of this is real, and which part is pretend? He is my songwriting partner, and he's helping me get ready for an event. That's normal. Platonic. Professional even.
The way his hands linger on my skin? That's romantic. Sexual.
Only we're not alone. My sister is outside, getting shoes. She might come in at any moment. This might be for her benefit. Or practice.
Or all him.
Because he wants me.
"Thank you." I say the only thing I can.
He replies without a hint of sarcasm. "Should I dress up too?"
"If you want." I don't know what works best for his image. Musicians wear what they want. A suit might say, well, I'm a suit. But then a suit might also say I know how to fit the occasion or I can be whatever you need and still be myself, which is exactly what we want as a work for hire team.
"I don't have anything this nice." He secures the first button. The second. "What do you think?" He runs his fingers over the neckline of the dress in a gesture that can only mean I want to touch you.
Then he releases me and I don't know what anything means.
This is confusing. I don't like confusing. That's why I write because it helps me put my messy thoughts in straight lines. Because it offers clarity. And Damon pretending he's my boyfriend while helping me make beautiful music—
It's only natural my brain is jumping to the more euphemistic use of the term.
That's a side effect I'm willing to suffer.
Anything for the job. That's why I'm here. To ace this assignment. That's what matters.
Only the words don't feel true the way they did when I asked him. They don't feel as true as they did yesterday.
Something is different.
We're different.
I push the thought aside to focus on the task at hand. Whatever happens tomorrow, I need to hit the ground running tonight. My eyes go to the mirror.
We look good here, like a couple getting ready for a night out. I guess that's the case. We are a couple of sorts.
I'm standing in this long orange-red dress, barefoot, hair down, makeup-free, and he's behind me in jeans and a t-shirt.
Laurel interrupts before I can contemplate the matter further. She saunters through the door with a stack of shoes in her hands. She looks at us, then at me, then at the mirror. "Oh, yes, Damon, thank you. Wow, you have great sex angles."
His nose scrunches in distaste. "This is from my parents' room."
"Go Mr. And Mrs. Webb." She laughs and shifts straight back to work. She looks me up and down and shakes her head. "No. This isn't the dress. Let's try…" She drops the boots on the couch and pulls a plum dress from the rack. It's shorter and cut low in the font instead of the back. "I like the shape of that one." She motions to the orange dress. "But I don't have it in another color in your size. Remind me to send you the black one next week."
