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“Jack,” I correct her.
“Jim? Jack? Forget him and his cheap-ass cheesecake! That was the past. Tonight, you are walking into a ballroom on the arm of one of the finest, most dangerously rich guys in New York City.”
She grabs my shoulders, shaking me gently.
“It’s not about the money,” I confirm.
“Yes, Yes I know. Just saying. But, listen to me. Julian Thorne is going to take one look at you in that dress and completely lose his ability to speak. He is going to be utterly, hopelessly lost for words.”
“You think so?” I desperately need reassurance.
“I know so,” Maddie says with absolute certainty. “He’s already got it bad, girl. Tonight is going to finish him off.”
My phone buzzes on the bed. Shit. He’s on his way.
“He’s coming,” I squeal.
“Now, grab your clutch, and go destroy him.” Maddie nods, pointing toward the door.
I take a deep breath, gather the smooth black silk of my dress in one hand, and walk out to meet him.
27
Julian
Fuck. I’m going to be late.
Not the usual kind of late that I am used to—calculated and entirely on my terms. That kind of late is a power move.
This is the other kind. One night I strictly cannot afford to be late.
The bow tie was missing from this tux, which is a fucking nightmare. A five thousand dollar made-to-measure, custom tailored tuxedo with no fucking bowtie? The incompetence is staggering, and Leonardo is going to hear about this at length the next time I see him—with the full force of a Thorne who is thoroughly pissed off.
I have pulled one from another tux, which will have to do because I am running out of options, and I need to get to Belrose. Traffic through Midtown at this hour is going to be a bloodbath. The one night I need everything to go right is apparently the night the universe decides to step in and monumentally fuck it all up for me.
I have been vibrating with this nervous energy since I woke up—something I point blank refuse to call actual nerves. I’ve performed at Carnegie Hall in front of over one thousand people, and this feeling was nowhere in sight.
Maybe asking her was an impulse. Maybe, I still don’t have the clarity to fully examine why I did it. All I know is that I am throwing her into the worst room I know tonight: my father’s world, his people, the particular breed of Manhattan money that assesses everything and everyone within ten seconds of meeting them. I am literally handing her to the wolves.
I hope she doesn’t think it’s too much.
I hope she doesn’t think I’m too much.
She has consumed me in a way I didn’t know was remotely possible. She doesn’t know that just being near her makes me feel like something inside me—something cold and long since dead—has suddenly started beating again.
I’ve spent the better part of two weeks in the shower with my eyes closed, growling her name into the steam, my hand slick and my mind an absolute wreck of blue eyes. The way she lost control while straddling my lap. That is the one thing I can’t get past. Ellise Vance who controls everything came completely apart in my hands. On that bench. And the mental image of it is driving me wild.
Where the actual fuck are the keys…
“Carmela,” I roar toward the back of the house. “Where are the keys to the Merc?”
“Second drawer from the right,” she calls back from the sitting room, her voice carrying an unbothered quality of someone who has been dealing with my chaos for over twenty years and has made her peace with it. “You’re welcome,” she adds.
“Thank you, thank you,” I shout back as I lunge for the antique unit, grab the fob, and sprint for the front door.
The matte black Mercedes sits at the curb exactly where I left it, looking predatory in the early evening light. I slide into the seat, the engine growling as the sound vibrates through the leather seats and I pull out into Manhattan traffic.
BOW-PEEP
