Page 89 of On Edge

I glance down at what I’m wearing. “But. I’m not exactly dressed for a party.”

Troy kills the engine and looks at me properly. It’s evening now, so there’s hardly any light except from the glow of the hotel’s main lobby. But I can see the gleam in his eyes as he does.

“You look...”

I stare at him in the dark, waiting for him to tell me what I look like. When, suddenly, there’s someone at the car window. A valet, who rushes to open the door for him. He shifts in his seat but ignores him, still looking at me.

“…fine. But if you like, we can go buy you something to wear.”

“But you’ve already bought me over a hundred dresses.”

He shrugs. “What’s one more?”

“This is fine, really.”

He opens the door and glances at the attendant as he gets out. “Tell the concierge I need a cocktail dress.” And then he tells him my size.

My cheeks redden as he comes over to my side of the car and holds my door open for me, at the same time offering me a hand.

I nearly fall out of the low vehicle. “I really don’t need another dress.”

Troy tuts and grabs me, helping me up. “If you’re going to be my wife,needisn’t a word in your vocabulary anymore.”

“Along with shouldn’t? I won’t have any words left at this rate.”

His mouth curves at the ends, matching the gleam in his eyes. “Words are overrated anyway.”

It’s a look on him I’ve only seen once before, at that bar that day he took me shopping. I wish he would smile more. It suits him.

Troy’s hand finds the small of my back, and he steers me into the side of the hotel as we leave the car to the attendants, and we take the lift to the top floor.

The rooftop is rammed. Lights pulse, and music blares from loudspeakers when we step out. I feel like I’m in a nightclub, but Troy guides me past the main bar toward the restaurant. There’s a sign outside that saysClosed for a private party.

But before we go inside, one of the hotel staff comes running over, breathless, holding up a black dress on a hanger that would look painted on when worn, complete with a matching purse. She offers it to Troy, who indicates that it’s for me.

I take it, unsure of what to do next.

“Put it on,” he says.

The staff member shows me where the ladies’ toilets are. I change, struggling a little with the zipper, then let my hair down, put it back up, and down again, unable to decide which looks better. I don’t have any makeup with me, either, except for lip gloss. What I put on this morning will have to do.

A knock echoes through the room.

I open the door to find Troy, his jaw tight, looking annoyed—his default expression, I’ve come to realize.

“It’s been twenty minutes. Are you ready yet?”

“Y-yes.” I step out, my discarded clothes bundled in my arms.

The dress clings everywhere it should, and my boots don’t go with it and are the completely wrong color. But when Troy’s gaze travels slowly from my feet to my face, heat crawls up my entire body.

That look, slow and assessing, feels like fingers tracing my skin.

But he frowns at my footwear.

Troy gestures to the member of staff who gave me the dress as they appear and takes my old clothes. “Run next door toLouboutin. Buy a pair of black heels.So Kate, if they have them.” He glances at me. “What size are you?”

I stare at him. “Uh, a five.”