Page 5 of Have To Be Mine

I got in the car, and before it had even pulled away from the curb, I had the clasp of my left earring open. The right one followed. I worked them off quickly, the relief immediate. They were way too heavy for my ears that were not used to more than simple diamond studs. I opened my sparkly clutch and dropped them in. The bag was barely large enough to hold my phone, my ID, and a lip balm I’d used once. It would have been nice to wear a dress that had pockets, but that was too much to ask, apparently. I pulled off the bracelet and my mother’s ring and deposited all of it in the bag.

My phone rang less than a minute into the drive home.

I answered without checking the screen. “Hedley.”

“Assessment?” my client asked.

“I’ll accept the terms.”

A beat of silence. “Good. I’ll have the contracts to you in the morning.”

He said goodnight and hung up.

For the rest of the drive, I worked through what the next weeks would be like with my new contract. It distracted me from thinking about my feet, which ached terribly, but I didn’t dare take my heels off in the car. I would never be able to get them back on, and truthfully, my pinky toes hurt so bad I feared they might have fallen off and blood would stain the back of the limo.

These feet weren’t made for stilettos. They were made for combat boots and sneakers. Function over fashion.

Half an hour later, I pushed through the door into my dimly lit apartment. I’d closed my blinds before I went to the wedding, but the glow of the streetlights and the moon shone through, washing my apartment in pale white light.

I extracted my feet from my shoes and tossed them aside like they were bear traps and I was their unwitting prey. The moan of relief I let out was almost pornographic. The good news was that my pinky toes were still attached, just bright pink and aching terribly.

I moved to my bedroom and took a second to look in the mirror, running my hand over the gown.

I reached behind me and carefully pulled the zipper, making sure not to move too fast and snag the delicate fabric. I slipped the straps from my shoulders one at a time, let the fabric pool at my feet, and then stepped out of it. It was on the floor less than three seconds before I picked it up. I’d been careful with it every minute.

I carried it to the closet and dropped to my knees in nothing but my underwear and strapless bra. I slid the box out from the back corner of my closet and lifted the lid. Inside were the fragments of a life I’d carefully packed away. Photographs of Mom and me at various recitals, her smile brighter than the stage lights. A sparkly Christmas brooch shaped like a treble clef that she wore every December. I brushed my thumb over it. A CD labeled “Krista’s Greatest Hits” in her looping handwriting. A couple of hand-written cards, the ink faded but the words still legible: “You were born to shine, baby girl.”

I laid the navy gown gently on top of everything, smoothing out the fabric with my fingers, making sure it lay flat and perfect.

“There you go, Mom,” I whispered. “I finally wore it.”

I placed the lid back on the box with the kind of care reserved for holy relics. Then I pressed a kiss to my fingers and touched them to the cardboard. My chest ached once again. It was different from the ache I’d felt listening to Elicia Jean sing, but part of the same wound.

I slid the box back into its corner and stood, my knees protesting slightly.

The old West Point T-shirt was where I’d left it that morning, draped over the chair by my bed. I took off my bra, freeing my breasts from push-up prison. It kept the girls high but attempted to squeeze me to death.

I pulled on my favorite shirt. The fabric was soft from years of washing. It had a small rip near the hem and a coffee stain on the belly. This was me. Not the woman in the navy gown with the beachy waves. Not the woman Dash Blackwell had tried to charm at the bar. He’d recoil if he saw me in my sensible panties and ratty shirt.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face. God, it felt good to get it all off. I rarely wore more than mascara and tinted moisturizer. I could feel the layer of makeup on my face and hated it. Mostly.

I shut off the lights and climbed into bed feeling a bit more like myself. The AC kicked on, cool air filling the room.

Three weeks. That was how long I had to keep Dash on track, to make sure the Greece campaign went off without a hitch, and to prove I could handle the most challenging logistics job of my career. If I could pull this off? My resume would be unbeatable. I would land any contract I wanted.

Tomorrow, I’d sign the paperwork and officially become Dash Blackwell’s shadow. His keeper. His professional babysitter.

And in three days? I’d be in Athens. With him.

At least there was zero chance of a travel romance when I was traveling with an insufferable playboy who hit on anything with a pulse. I had watched him work the reception tonight. I knew exactly what he was.

And I was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent immune to his bullshit.

3

DASH

Mom’s house smelled like roasted chicken. I was hungry, hungover, and could use some comfort food. And I was in a sour mood. Last night had been a total bust. Not because I couldn’t have made something happen. More like the brunette in blue ruined me.