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I prepare to take a step back to finish my actual shower very quickly, but he doesn't let go, holding me close for a moment longer.
"Oh, and Annie?" he says, waiting for me to meet his eyes again. He leans down and rubs his lips against mine and whispers, "Good girl."
Chapter Twenty Five
Cole
Staff moves around the ballroom in a way that, to anyone else, would seem chaotic and disorganized, but they’re like a play, each knowing what they’re doing and where they’re supposed to be—setting out champagne flutes, adjusting floral arrangements, ensuring every detail meets my standards. And right now, my standards are impossibly high as I oversee the final touches before guests arrive for the gala.
Because I’m pissed.
Not the barely noticeable kind, either. The kind that makes the staff skittish, eyes darting away when I so much as glance in their direction.
“Who approved this arrangement?” I snap, pointing to a too-large floral centerpiece on one of the cocktail tables near the bar.
The young event coordinator stiffens. “I—I did, sir. I thought—”
“It’s blocking the sightline of the bar,” I cut in, voice sharp. “I don’t want people maneuvering around an overgrown shrub just to order a drink. Fix it.”
She nods frantically, grabbing two other staff members to help as she mutters apologies. I don’t bother acknowledging them. My patience is already stretched thin, and it’s not just because of the decorations.
It’s because of Annie.
More specifically, because I’ve just learned that instead of buying a proper dress for the event—one that was tailored, fitted, and appropriate for an event of this scale—she’d made her own.
I’d made it very clear that she was to pick whatever she wanted, no expense spared. And she… what? Decided a homemade dress was better?
The irritation simmers under my skin, making my already short fuse even shorter. What the hell is it going to look like? Annie is beautiful, sure, but that won’t mean anything if she’s dressed in something amateurish.
This isn’t a casual dinner. This is a gala. A showcase of power and prestige, meant to solidify my connections with investors, entice new ones, build relationships, and secure future business. Everything has to be perfect. And now, I have to present my son at an adults-only event and introduce the nanny in a homemade dress?
And, of course, no one had seen the damn thing yet, so there was no way to prepare for the damage control if it turned out to be a disaster.
The thought makes me snap at another waiter, whose only crime is slightly adjusting a table setting in my peripheral vision. He pales and nods hurriedly before disappearing.
I drag a hand down my face, inhaling deeply, trying to rein in the frustration I have nowhere to put.
“If you keep scaring them off like that,” a familiar voice says from behind me, amused, “there won’t be anyone left to work the party.”
I turn on my heel, already prepared to give her a piece of my mind about the dress—about how she should’ve just picked something instead of making my life more complicated—when I see her.
And everything in me stills.
Annie stands before me like something out of a dream, and for the first time in my life, I struggle to find words.
Her golden hair is swept into elegant Old Hollywood waves, framing her face in a way that makes her look ethereal. Her makeup is subtle but flawless—her skin glowing, her lips lush, her blue eyes enhanced by the color of her dress.
And her dress.
Not sloppy. Not amateurish.
A masterpiece.
The fabric is a seamless blend of soft blues and nude tones, crafted so meticulously that it looks like it was made for royalty. The bodice sits delicately off hershoulders, drawing my attention to the graceful line of her collarbone—something I’d never considered sexy before, but suddenly, I can’t stop staring.
The neckline plunges down the center of her chest, revealing teasing glimpses of the tops and sides of her breasts, but somehow, doesn’t look immodest.
Nude mesh lines the lace bodice, giving the illusion of exposed skin without actually revealing anything. The skirt flows effortlessly to the floor, nearly sheer—maybe if I squinted and wished hard enough.