Page 16

Like with the bakery, we’re parked in a back alley again.

But this time, there’s a huge loading dock where a stylish man is waving.

Dalton strides with the confidence of a panther now that we’re back on solid ground.

I eyeball the manicured man leading us inside, wondering what kind of trust Dalton has in mind.

“Mr Ward. Miss Phillips. It’s lovely to have you with us.

So glad we could accommodate your privacy needs last minute,” the man says, but there’s an edge to his tone that says he’s not pleased with the changes.

“I’m Matty. We’ve cleared out the entire store just for you two.

Cameras are off, and the NDAs are signed.

Your privacy is of our utmost importance. ”

Holy shit. Dalton wasn’t kidding about keeping this date anonymous. Kathy and the adventurer bros didn’t mention anything, but I’m sure they made a similar agreement. The use of my fake bidder name doesn’t go unnoticed either.

“This way, please.” Matty’s lips spread into a friendlier smile that falls a hair short of genuine.

“Did you make everyone we’re interacting with today sign an NDA?

” I whisper as we follow Matty’s gliding strides through a warehouse filled with racks of beautiful clothing.

Every style, color, and fabric I could imagine.

I’m tempted to brush my fingertips over the garments, but after catching an eyeful of a price tag that says one thousand dollars, I shove my hands into my pockets.

“Yes. You said you wanted to ensure no one would ever know we went on this date. So I made sure we could guarantee your anonymity. Texted my lawyer first thing this morning.”

I mutter something that hopefully comes out as a thank you and hides the shock coursing through my veins. Yes, I knew Dalton had rearranged some plans, but involving a legal team, shutting off cameras is above and beyond.

Matty holds open a swinging door to a showroom of warm woods and lush velvety furniture. “Welcome to Haute House.”

Everything about the store screams money, from the spread on the center table of fruits, cheeses, and champagne to the chandelier that’s bigger than my bathroom. This place is for the women who should have been bidding on Dalton. Not broke-ass interns like me.

I resist the urge to hightail it back through the warehouse and hide in the SUV. I’d take the skyscraper over this place any day. My weight shifts backward, still fighting that desire to bolt, when Dalton’s hand slides over my lower back, grounding me.

“My manager mentioned neither of you has been a guest here before.” When we both agree, he walks to an ornate front desk made of clear plastic that’s filled with iPads and snatches up two of the tablets.

He leads us to the navy blue velvet sofa under the massive chandelier and presses a tablet into each of our hands.

“Lovely, and welcome. Haute House is a clothing experience for couples. Unlike traditional fashion consultants, we help curate styles based on your partner’s choices for you.

The goal is to bring couples together by letting them create dream styles for the people they love. ”

I lock my jaw, swiveling to side-glare Dalton. Like hell, I’m going to wear some leather dominatrix outfit if this man has a kink.

Matty must read my expression because he adds, “The surveys allow you to enter your preferences as well, and we always take them into consideration when curating the outfits for you to try on. This way, we guarantee both parties are happy and trust is built.” He steps forward and taps the faces of our screens, awakening the devices to a questionnaire with gold script accents and an obscene amount of pages, according to the progress bar.

As I glance over the first questions, Matty pops open the bottle of champagne and is handing us glasses without asking. Guess that’s included with the experience.

Matty’s salty smile is back. “We find a little social lubricant helps open the mind to our experience.”

And opens wallets. Just like we do to the auction’s bidders.

“Please take your time. I will be in the back preparing your options based on your responses. Help yourself to more champagne and food before we enter the dressing rooms.

Dalton taps at his screen, but I can’t seem to get past the first question.

What’s your ideal budget? The numbers listed cause a boulder to form in my lungs.

Where is the “None of the above” option?

Even if we’re not paying for this, I can’t bring myself to select any of the checkboxes.

I don’t notice the tremor in my hand until Dalton’s fingers close over the wrist holding the iPad.

“You okay?” He asks.

I stammer, “Yeah… no, actually. Just a little out of my depth. These aren’t clothing budgets. They’re rent.”

Dalton slides closer so our shoulders are touching. “You’re right. They are ridiculous. And I’m sorry. I should have picked something?—”

“No, no, I’m being stupid. Most women would swoon over something as generous and extravagant as this. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” I set down my drink and select the lowest bracket and move on to the next page, frantically tapping other random things without looking.

“Hey,” Dalton eases the device from me. When I don’t look up, a hand slides behind the nape of my neck, applying the lightest pressure until I meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry. I should have thought about how stressful and triggering this might be for you.

Especially after everything I heard you say last night about money.

This is my fault, and I completely understand why you’re uncomfortable.

It’s normal to be uncomfortable with this kind of money for clothing. Okay?”

I lean back into the weight of his hand. “Okay.

“Have some of the champagne. I’ll fill out the finance questions and then give it back to you for the fun part.

When tonight’s over, we’ll sell the clothes and donate the money to any charity you want.

Or pay your rent for the next few months.

I’ve never given a shit about fashion and think it’s asinine too.

” The soft curve of his full lips pulls up as he massages my neck.

“Can we reinvest in Second Chance?”

“If that’s what you want, of course.”

I give a nod and grab the glass, taking a swig just large enough to make my head swim but avoid a bubble headache. Dalton goes back to the start, then taps through a few pages before offering the tablet back.

He holds tight when I try to take it. “I know this feels like too much, but sometimes it’s okay to let others pamper you. You deserve to be pampered, Jenna.”

He doesn’t let go until I give a quick acknowledging jerk of my chin.

We take almost twenty minutes to make it through the questionnaire, and I’m more than a little buzzed by the time Matty reappears.

“Your selections are ready.” He gestures to two rooms swathed in black curtains at the back of the space I hadn’t noticed before.

Each one has an ottoman, with smaller chandeliers and mirrors the size of an entire wall.

One rack is filled with suits and dress pants, while another is brimming with dresses.

If you need assistance or a size adjustment, there’s a buzzer on the wall. The curtain in the middle can be drawn back if you choose to dress together or left down if you prefer a big reveal. I will leave you to it.” With a fox-like smile, Matty leaves us standing outside the changing rooms.

“Reveal?” I ask. While I had fantasized about Dalton between my legs just hours ago at breakfast, something about stripping out of my thrifted business casual clothing to step into over-priced glam wear feels somehow less sexy.

Dalton leans in, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear. “Shout my name when you’re ready.”

With a wink, he slips behind a velvet curtain. I force myself to follow his lead before I can talk myself out of this. It’s just freaking clothes, Jenna. Pull your shit together!

The curtains dampen the outside world and deliver a surprising sense of calm.

The rack of clothing is far less intimidating than the ones I saw in the back.

All price tags have been removed and I do my best not to think about what the dresses cost. Dalton climbed a damn skyscraper so he wouldn’t ruin our date.

I’m not going to ruin it over trying on some stupid clothing.

Each outfit is numbered one to ten, and at the end of the rack are a variety of bras, all in my size, to accommodate the different styles of dresses.

The sound of a zipper cuts through the curtain separating us.

I try envisioning Dalton stripping off his jeans to calm myself, but that thought spirals into rock-hard abs and a bulge straining against his boxers that has my skin flushing and head spinning.

Neither of which is a good mix with the champagne fizzing through my system.

Instead, I focus on the task at hand and start stripping off my clothing with false confidence.

I pluck the first dress off the rack, not looking at it, before tugging the thing on.

It’s a skintight job that squeezes over my hips.

The front pulls up high above my collarbones, giving it a modest front.

The back, however, is anything but. A gold zipper spans the entire back, but it’s purely for looks.

The catch stops just above my ass despite the continued gold teeth going all the way up to the top.

I eye the selection of bras, but there’s no point with an open back like this.

The zipper scrapes against my skin as I turn to check out the dress in the mirror.

Sexy? Yes. This dress was made for someone with curves like mine, but I’m praying this isn’t Dalton’s favorite.

Already, I’m squirming to keep the metal from rubbing against my shoulder blades and don’t even bother putting on the coordinated shoes.

“Forty-eight?” Dalton’s muffled voice calls.