Page 34 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

Twenty minutes later, we're standing outside Maison Delacroix, a boutique so exclusive it doesn't even have a sign—just a discreet brass plaque beside an unmarked door.

"This looks..." Willow pauses, searching for the right word. "Intimidating. "

"It's just a dress shop," I assure her, though I understand her hesitation. The pristine black facade with its single, artfully lit window displaying a lone gown would intimidate anyone not accustomed to this level of luxury.

I press the doorbell, and moments later, we're buzzed in. The interior is all white marble and soft lighting, with only a handful of dresses on display, each one a work of art.

"Monsieur Langley!" An impeccably dressed woman glides toward us. "What a pleasure to see you. And Mademoiselle?—"

"Willow Harper," Willow supplies before I have a chance to introduce her. She offers her hand with that natural warmth that makes everyone fall instantly in love with her. "It's lovely to meet you."

"Francine Moreau," the woman replies, clearly charmed. "The pleasure is mine. How may we assist you today?"

"Miss Harper needs a gown for an event at The Plaza this Saturday. She’s the director of Silver Hearts, and we’re hosting a fundraiser for the organization."

Francine's eyes light up. "Ah, yes! I've been reading about this event in the society pages. Such wonderful work you're doing with the elderly, Miss Harper."

Willow blushes modestly. "Thank you. Though I have to admit, I'm a bit out of my element here. Your boutique is gorgeous."

"You're very kind." Francine studies Willow with a professional eye. "I have several pieces that would be perfect for you. Shall we start with champagne? Or perhaps emerald to complement those lovely eyes?"

As Francine leads Willow to the dressing area, I settle onto one of the plush velvet sofas, feeling like a linebacker who's accidentally wandered into a dollhouse.

Everything here is delicate, feminine, pristine white.

I spread my arms across the sofa back, trying to take up less space but somehow managing to take up more.

Within minutes, Willow emerges in a champagne silk number that looks so incredible on her it makes me forget my own name.

Jesus Christ.

The dress clings to every curve, the silk moving like liquid when she walks. My mouth goes completely dry, and I have to shift position on the sofa because my perfectly tailored pants are suddenly uncomfortably tight.

"What do you think?" She looks uncertain somehow, then does a little turn, and I bite back a groan. The back of the dress dips low, exposing an expanse of creamy skin at the base of her spine that I desperately want to touch. Not only with my hands but with my lips, my tongue. Fuck.

"Beautiful," I manage, proud of myself for forming an actual word instead of the caveman grunt that wanted to escape.

"Yes,” Francine muses mostly to herself, “but not quite right."

Not quite right? Is the woman blind? She delicately snaps her fingers and shakes her head. "The color is too pale for you,” she tells Willow. “It washes out your delicate complexion. Let's try the emerald."

Willow shrugs then disappears back into the dressing room. As soon as the ladies are gone, I take the opportunity to adjust myself discreetly. Get it together, Langley. You're not a teenager.

The next dress nearly kills me.

The deep green makes Willow’s eyes sparkle and her creamy skin glow. The neckline is more modest, which should help my current predicament, except now all I can think about is slowly unzipping it later. The fabric hugs her body in a way that makes my hands itch to trace the same path.

"Better?" she asks, looking at me for approval as she smooths the fabric over her hips.

Don't look at her hips. Don't think about those hips or how those long legs feel when they’re wrapped around me. Think about... spreadsheets. Quarterly reports. Alfred's combover.

"Ah, yeah. Much better." My voice comes out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat.

Francine taps her chin thoughtfully. "I agree, but the silhouette isn't quite perfect. I have something in the back—a new arrival. One moment."

As Francine slips away, Willow catches my eye in the mirror. "Are you sure about this? These dresses must cost?—"

"Don't think about that," I interrupt, partly to be reassuring and partly because if she keeps looking at me like that, I'm going to do something highly inappropriate in this very proper boutique. "Just focus on finding something you love."

She gives me a small smile. "You're very sweet, you know that?"

Sweet. Right. That's definitely what I'm feeling right now. I shift again on the sofa.

Before I can respond, Francine returns with a gown draped over her arm. "This," she announces with quiet confidence, "is the one."

Willow’s eyes light up as she looks at the dress. “It’s stunning.”

Francine smiles. “Just wait until you try it on.”

When Willow emerges in the midnight blue gown, I actually stand up without meaning to—partly in admiration, partly because sitting is becoming genuinely uncomfortable.

She looks... ethereal. The dress fits her as if it were made for her, highlighting every curve while maintaining an air of elegance. The beading catches the light, drawing my attention to the way the bodice shapes her breasts, the way the skirt flows over her body and down her legs.

Think about baseball. Think about tax law. Think about anything except ? —

"Ohh," Francine breathes. "Yes. This is it."

Willow turns slowly, examining herself in the three-way mirror, and I have to lock my knees to keep standing. From every angle, she's devastating.

"It's perfect," she whispers, then catches sight of the price tag. Her eyes widen. "Oh my god, Damien, no. This is?—"

"The right dress," I finish firmly, my voice only slightly strangled. "Francine, we'll take it. And we'll need shoes and accessories to match."

"Excellent choice. I have just the things."

The next hour is beautiful torture. Willow parades out in various shoes, each pair making her legs look even longer, shapelier.

Although heels are not her strong suit, the few steps Willow takes in the designer sandals seem to get easier for her.

When she leans forward to unbuckle one of the delicate straps on her shoe, the dress gapes slightly at the neckline, giving me a delicious view of her cleavage.

I grab a decorative pillow from the sofa and clutch it in my lap like a lifeline.

"I think I’m actually getting the hang of walking in these things," Willow says, completely unaware that she's slowly killing me.

She charms Francine and the floor assistant, making them laugh over little things, and asking about their families.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting here like a smitten fool, trying not to think about the night when I'll see her in this dress again.

When I'll be able to touch her, dance with her, hopefully peel every beautiful piece off of her. ..

"Damien?" Willow's voice pulls me from my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"Fine," I lie, standing carefully with the pillow still strategically placed. "Just... warm in here."

Francine looks concerned. "Shall I adjust the temperature?"

"No, no." I move toward the register, using the pillow to gesture casually before setting it down. "Let's just finish up."

As Francine rings up our purchases, Willow stands beside me biting her lip at the small fortune I’ve just spent on her dress and shoes.

I don’t care about the money. It’s nothing, considering the size of my bank account.

I’d gladly spend everything I have in order to see her smiling the way she was this afternoon.

Of course, that's when reality hits me like a bucket of ice water. After the fundraiser ends, our arrangement ends. This—watching her spin in beautiful dresses, seeing her smile at me like I've given her the moon—all of this ends.

Fuck. How can I possibly go back to my regular life again? The one that doesn’t include her?

"Damien?" Willow touches my arm. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"About what?"

She motions to the bag now grasped in her hand. “About this. The dress, the shoes… It’s too much.”

“No, it isn’t.” I touch her cheek. “And it’s not too much. Not for you.”

Her eyes warm with relief and something else. Something deeper, something that makes me want to pull her into my arms right here in the middle of the boutique and kiss her senseless. "Thank you,” she says softly. “For this. For everything."

"My pleasure." The words feel inadequate. What I really want to say is: Don't leave. Stay with me. Let me buy you beautiful dresses every day just to see you smile.

But I don't. Instead, I take the large bag from her while Willow gushes to Francine one more time about how perfect everything is and how much she appreciated her help.

As we leave Maison Delacroix, Willow practically bouncing with excitement beside me, I push down the growing dread in my chest. The fundraiser this weekend should be a triumph—the culmination of weeks of planning, a potential victory over Alfred and the board.

Instead, all I can think about is how empty my life is going to feel when Willow’s no longer in it.