Page 13

CHAPTER 13

EMILY

I know Andy said I wasn’t required to work the event tonight, that I was attending as a guest and nothing more, but not long after I arrived, I caught sight of Dallas, grinning broadly next to Robbie and another HMC client, NFL superstar Joey Tanner, and when my eyes met with Dallas’s across the red carpet, I did the first thing any normal thirty-five-year-old woman in her right mind would do; I fled.

Making up some bullshit excuse about a missing auction item, I excused myself, scurrying into the back area, where I’ve been for the last fifteen minutes because Gayle, the event coordinator, saw me and put me to work.

Now, however, after three trips between the kitchen and the ballroom in sky-high heels and a form-fitting gown, I’m a disheveled mess. My perfectly curled hair is now limp and frizzy, my makeup undoubtedly smudged, and I have a serious case of under-boob sweat. But sweat patches are a small price to pay to avoid Dallas Shaw.

We’ve been texting non-stop since last night when, after a few too many wines—and some unnecessary encouragement from Tess—I sent him a good luck text. I vowed it to be just the one. But, of course, that was a big fat lie. And since then, it’s been constant. Over the last twenty-four hours, the texts have gone from casual banter to blatant flirtation, and I hate myself.

When I caught sight of Dallas earlier, all I kept thinking about was the last text he sent me, the one that feels as if it’s burning a hole through my phone—and my panties.

DO NOT ENGAGE: Trust me, baby, when I finally get you back into my bed, you’re never gonna wanna leave.

I manage to make a swift and seamless escape from Gayle’s tyrannical gaze, slipping out into the corridor. Hurrying as best as I can toward the bathroom so I can put myself back together before heading out to the event, I come to an abrupt stop the moment I turn a corner, colliding face first into a solid wall. Of muscle.

It’s the scent that I notice first. The scent that immediately renders me intoxicated and weak at the knees. Forcing my chin up, dread and something vaguely familiar and not at all unpleasant pools low in my belly at the sight of the one person I’ve been desperate to avoid for no other reason than to prevent this exact reaction.

I meet his twinkling green gaze, my skin pricking at the tension that settles between us, and I force my focus downwards, taking a much needed step back. When I get a good look at him, I swear I almost swallow my tongue because of course he looks even better up close. His hair is tamed, perfectly styled and swept back, face clean-shaven, all six-foot-four of him impeccably styled from head to toe, dressed in a fitted and very Christmassy red and green tartan suit that I’m sure would look ridiculous on anyone else but he somehow manages to pull off exceptionally well. Frankly, I get the feeling the man could wear a cardboard box with some armholes poked through it and still look amazing.

I swallow the lump that always seems to find itself in the back of my throat whenever he’s around, tucking one of my limp curls behind my ear. “What are you doing b-back here?”

Dallas takes a step forward, closing the gap I’d forced between us seconds ago, and I feel the backs of his fingers skate over the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He ducks down, his voice dangerously close as he whispers, “What do you think?”

I swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes. If I meet his eyes, then I risk seeing the want and lust that I witnessed in them from across the red carpet earlier, and being this close to him, in this dangerously low-lit corridor, with no one around, I don’t trust him. Or myself.

“You look beautiful,” Dallas says, pulling me from my thoughts.

Reluctantly, I peer up at him, resenting myself the moment I meet that weighty stare.

“We match.” He grins.

He’s not wrong. We do match. It’s almost embarrassing. Dallas in his Christmas giftwrap suit, and me in my long, red satin dress with its mock halter neck and dangerous thigh high slit; in my defense, it was the best I could find within my price range at such late notice in Bloomingdale’s.

His fingers are still dancing against my skin, eliciting goosebumps to rise to the surface, and my God… did I mention he smells good?

Dallas chuckles, and I realize he just said something. But I’m totally not listening.

I look up, ensnared in his gaze once again, and I swear, when his hand skirts over my bare shoulder and I feel his thumb press against the thrumming pulse point at the base of my neck, I almost melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Dallas,” I say quietly, my tone an embarrassing combination of warning and want.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he says in response, his words finite, accompanied by an I dare you to even try and argue with me look in his eyes .

Honestly, I couldn’t argue with him even if I wanted to. And yes, I know what going home with him means. I know the risk and the consequences of those risks, but my body wants what it wants, and my mind seems to have no further say in the matter.

Before I can say anything, we’re interrupted by the sound of heels clacking from behind me, and as if I’ve burned him, Dallas takes a big step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, the smoldering look on his face immediately replaced by that casual, dimpled grin he wears so well.

“There you are!”

I turn, my heart flying up into the back of my throat at the sight of Jenn rounding the corner, smiling widely upon her approach.

“What are you doing back here?” she asks, grabbing my hand.

“Oh, I—” I nervously tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling Dallas’s unwavering presence looming behind me like the Christmas-clad elephant in the room. “Gayle needed help.”

“Gayle has more than enough help ,” Jenn says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’re not here to work. Oh, you’re just too sweet.”

I force a smile. Oh, Jenn, if only you knew…

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” She arches one eyebrow as best she can against the effects of the Botox in her forehead, and I don’t miss the conspiratorial tone in her voice that immediately causes my hackles to prick. I know that tone, and I don’t like it. Apparently, neither does Dallas if his heavy exhale is any indication.

“Dallas, honey, what are you doing back here?” Jenn asks, looking over my shoulder as if she’s only now noticed the giant man wearing the suit made of Christmas ribbon. “You should be out there mingling, sweetie.”

“I was taking a piss,” he says casually.

Jenn blanches.

I close my eyes .

“Really nice, Dallas,” Jenn says drolly, shaking her head at me. “I swear, these boys of Andy’s…”

I manage another smile, internally wincing at the way she says boys … like they’re children. Dallas is twenty-six, not fourteen. Sure, Emily, keep telling yourself that. I ignore my snide subconscious.

“Come on. I want you to meet him,” Jenn says with an eager squeal, tugging on my hand.

My heart sinks as I follow her, and when I glance over my shoulder and see Dallas standing in the one spot, hands in his pockets, jaw ticking despite the unreadable look on his face, something settles heavily in my gut. And I suddenly wish I could just blow off this whole night and go home with him right now because really, he’s what I want. What’s the use in denying it any longer?

The event space is crowded full of people, lights dim, music playing throughout. Jenn continues holding my hand, towing me through the throng. She’s saying something, but honestly, I’m not really listening, my mind wholeheartedly consumed by the man I left all alone back in the corridor.

When we come to a stop by our designated table, Jenn steps aside, and I see the big grin on her face as she says, “Simon, this is Emily.”

I look up to see a handsome man standing in front of me, dark eyes, dark hair, dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, a lowball of amber liquor in his hand.

All I can do is smile. I’m not an idiot. I know exactly what’s happening here, but that doesn’t make me feel any less awkward about the matter.

“Emily, this is Simon.” Jenn beams, wrapping her arm around the man. “My brother.”

My eyes widen. Her brother? Well, this is just fucking perfect…