Page 64 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?

When he finally reached my lower back, I wondered why I'd put in such a long zipper to begin with. What had I been thinking?

While I clutched the front of my dress to me, his presence became even stronger, and I felt the brush of his shirt against my mostly bare back. And then he planted a kiss on the top of my head, making my stomach do a spontaneous flip.

Absolutely not.

"You're all set." His voice was a low rumble. "I'll leave you to get dressed now... unless you need more help," he added.

Oh, he was enjoying this way too much.

Turning around to face him, ignoring the flush of my cheeks, I took in his mischievous expression. Was he teasing me?

"I'm good. All good."

He shot me a smirk. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," he reminded me.

He did not just go there.

"And every inch of you..." He paused to let his eyes roam up and down my body. "...is a masterpiece."

Oh, for the love of—

I swallowed hard. "It... it was dark that night."

"Not entirely, gorgeous."

Suddenly, the room became extremely warm. Had the furnace kicked in or something? Was the falling snow somehow acting as an insulator? At this point, my face had to be tomato red.This was ridiculous.

His easy laughter rang out as he took in my expression. "I love that you're turning shy on me. You have many different sides, and it's quite intriguing, Shayla."

A laugh escaped me.Because if I didn't laugh, I might lose my damn mind."It's not Shayla."

He turned and walked to the door. "Okay, Veronica."

"It's not Veronica," I called after him, but he was already gone, the door shutting softly behind him.

Shaking my head, I tried my best to breathe and calm myself.I needed to focus. I had a job to do.

This was about making him fall for me. Not the other way around.

I still had a movie to get through tonight. A movie, though, couldn't be that difficult. There was no talking involved, and Archie would be right there with us.It wasn't like anything physical was going to happen.

With a sigh of relief, I reached for the clothes and rifled through them. No jerseys. Just a few hoodies, t-shirts, and joggers. All high end, of course.

Removing my dress, I pulled a dark blue hoodie over my head, and—oh. Oh, wow. Seriously?

The fleece-lined fabric hugged my skin like a warm embrace, oversized in the best way, the sleeves draping past my wrists. Soft, worn-in, and impossibly comfortable, like the kind of hoodie you steal and never give back.

And the smell? Like heaven.

Great. Just great.

Kicking my heels off next, I grabbed the largest looking sweats and pulled them on, hoping—no, praying—they'd fit. And miraculously, they did. They slid on easily, the waistband with plenty of room and the legs loose but not super baggy.

I released that breath I absolutely knew I was holding. Everything fit. Thank goodness.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I began to relish the feel of it all. Wait, stop. I shouldn't be relishing this at all. This was... silly.

But there was just something about slipping into a man's well-worn, ridiculously good-smelling clothes that felt like a hug for the soul. Even if, in this case, they belonged to the devil himself.