Page 19 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Sugar

MADDIE

N one of it was right.

I flipped back to the first hanger in my closet.

I needed to find something to wear to my date-that-was- not -a-date with Easton.

Not for the first time, Greer’s methods held appeal.

I wouldn’t be sharing that with her. If I did, she would throw my entire apartment and life into upheaval while she instituted a new system.

I refused to turn my back on my organized chaos.

I just wished my closet had some rhyme or reason rather than shirts mixed in with dresses interspersed with random things that shouldn’t even be taking up hanger space.

Who hung up a torn pajama shirt or bathing suit?

Me, apparently.

While I was making unrealistic wishes, I added one for the perfect dress to magically appear.

I’d thought I had one, but it was nowhere to be found. Either someone had borrowed it, or it was still in my bedroom at home.

Or I’d lost it in a move, laundry day, or drunken shenanigans. Those were also possibilities.

The hows didn’t matter. The pressing issue was finding a replacement.

I grabbed my phone to ask Greer if she was around. Either way, I would be taking the trip three floors up to go shopping in her sorted and categorized closet.

Before I could hit send, a text came through.

Easton: Are you home?

Me: That depends. Are you asking so you can pick me up early?

Easton: No.

Me: Then yes.

Easton: If I’d answered yes?

Me: Then I was in Bermuda.

Easton: That would be a long commute for our dinner.

Easton: But I’m flattered to know you’re so excited that you would lie to get out of seeing me early.

Me: Who said it would be a lie? I’m overdue for a vacation.

Easton: The flattery.

Me: I’m kidding. I’m just nowhere close to being ready.

Easton: I’ll help with that.

Me: Help how?

I stared down at our messages and did my best to not let my libido answer with images of him assisting me in the shower. It wouldn’t be accurate, and it certainly wouldn’t help me survive the night.

My message remained unseen, so I was forced to exit out to message Greer.

Me: Hey, you home?

Greer: Library.

Me: On a SATURDAY?! Nerd.

Me: I’m going up to your apartment to borrow a dress. Cool?

Greer: After you insulted me?

Me: It was said with love and envy. Does that help?

Greer: It does. Borrow away. Hot date?

I wish.

Me: Work thing.

It wasn’t a lie. In fact, it was a double truth. It was a work event for Easton and a work event for me since our relationship was a business arrangement.

I grabbed her spare key from my junk drawer—which was basically all of my limited drawers—and took the elevator up to her floor. Letting myself in, I didn’t snoop as I quickly flipped through her closet.

It was worse than I thought.

Not only were her clothes organized by type, they were further sorted by color. It made finding things too easy.

Where was the fun? The challenge?

The rush of the hunt?

I grabbed a shimmery black dress and hightailed it back downstairs to get ready. I’d barely closed the door behind me when another text came through.

Easton: Go to the lobby.

Me: Why?

My curiosity was too insistent, and I didn’t wait for an answer before doing what he said.

When I reached the lobby, I scanned around, looking for him. It was unnecessary. He would’ve stood out in the room of college kids.

What the hell?

I was about to text to ask if that message was supposed to go to someone else—possibly with some choice names and insults thrown in—when a familiar looking man approached. “Maddie?”

“Yes?”

He hefted a paper bag and fancy garment bag into my arms before also handing me an iced coffee—though not from the campus café. “From Mr. Wells.”

I realized where I recognized him from. He’d been in one of the open offices at Wells Law with a few other people. They’d all seemed to be hard at work with computers and a spread of papers in front of them. I doubted delivery-boy was in his job description.

Or maybe it was. Maybe delivering coffee to Easton’s… whatevers was a frequent occurrence.

A quick look at the man was enough to dispel that theory—and cut off the irrational jealousy.

The man was watching me with the same puzzled expression that I was giving the bags. He was just smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

I was not.

“Is this a typical part of your job?”

“Mr. Wells warned that you would try to question me, and that I shouldn’t fall for your innocent face since you’re a shark disguised as a guppy. I plead the fifth.” He let a smile through. “But no. This is a first.”

I might’ve already talked my dramatic ass from the edge, but getting that reassurance still helped.

And the fact Easton already knew me enough to warn his employee—not to mention the description he used—made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It was enough to keep me rooted to my spot as I watched him leave.

Only then did I remember that I was holding bags that I probably should’ve made him return to his boss.

I would’ve kept the coffee regardless. I was a decent person, not a saint.

Already left holding the bag—literally—I returned to the elevator.

Once inside, I took a sip of coffee and nearly swooned.

It was a billion times better than the already delicious one I always got, mostly because it tasted like there were actual toasted marshmallows inside.

I lifted the cup in search of a logo or marking to inform me where it was from so I could purchase a lifetime supply.

This is incredible.

Despite my attempt to savor it, the cup was nearly empty by the time I reached my apartment. I grudgingly set it down to unpack the rest of the stuff.

Starting with the glossy paper bag from a store I didn’t recognize, I pulled out a pair of strappy gold heels.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how Easton had gotten my exact size correct.

I unwrapped the bundle of delicate tissue paper to find a coordinating gold clutch.

Setting that aside, I ignored a small velvet box—clearly jewelry—to grab the last thing.

A small envelope.

Opening it, there was a notecard and a black card. Not like a black notecard. But a fancy credit card. I returned that to the bag before reading the note.

Your payment. Try to hand it back, and neither of us will be happy.

-Tyrant

PS You better be wearing the necklace tonight.

I would be scared that he already knew me so well if it weren’t for the arousal pooling between my thighs at the reminder that I was owed a payment. His note also issued a challenge that I was looking forward to accepting.

I set it down and unzipped the garment bag before letting out a happy squeal.

The silky burgundy dress belonged on a red carpet, not in a college housing apartment.

Though the back of the skirt likely reached my ankle, the front wrapped in a way that would expose one of my legs.

Like, a lot of it. The bodice had boning structure leading up to the swoopy drape of fabric at my breast—both of which would accentuate my curves.

When I lifted it off my little table, I turned it to see the back was more strap than fabric, the delicate pieces weaving down to tie above my ass.

If this is the dress code, then it’s a good thing I didn’t try to wear something from my closet. Even the one I pilfered from Greer was woefully inadequate.

Carefully setting it on top of the bag, I picked up my phone and started typing.

Then stopped.

Then deleted what I had and started again.

Then stopped.

I wanted to tell him it was unnecessary. That I could’ve gone shopping for myself—with a little direction on what to buy. That the cost of anything he sent needed to come out of the money he didn’t even really owe me.

That I didn’t even need said money in the first place, and that wasn’t what any of this was about.

The choice was made for me.

Easton: Say thank you, Madeline.

Me: Thank you.

Easton: You’re welcome. I’m going to be a half hour late.

Me: Thank God.

Easton: Again with the flattery.

Me: No, that’s not what I meant. I’m also running a little behind.

When no more messages came, I tossed my phone down, drank the rest of my coffee, and then hurried into the shower.

“Shit. Shit. Damn. Hell.”

Panting through my frustrated curses, I twisted and turned as I tried to secure my dress into place.

It was not a one-person job.

When the dewy glisten I was working up began to turn into outright sweat that would smear my makeup and frizz my hair, I hurried into the hallway to knock on my neighbor’s door.

A dude answered and scanned down my body. “Guessing you’re not my ramen.”

“I am not,” I confirmed. “Is Cassie here?”

“Nah, she’s at work.”

I liked Cassie. I trusted Cassie. Assuming this was someone she felt comfortable enough to leave alone in her apartment, by the transitive property, I also trusted him.

At least enough to ask him for a weird favor in the middle of the hallway.

“Can you do me a favor?” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Can you help me tie this?”

His gaze narrowed. “Is this some sort of test?”

“Only of my sanity.”

“Okay, yeah. Sure,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure about it.

I spun and gathered my hair over one shoulder.

“What am I doing here?” he asked.

“Tighten the straps like laces and then tie them.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, but I felt the first tug just as a gruff voice bit out, “Having fun, Madeline?”

The guy behind me released his hold on the straps, and the fabric began to drop. I almost let it, too. I was too busy trying to stop my eyes from bugging out of my head and my tongue from unfurling.

Wow.

I’d seen Easton in a suit a few times, so I wouldn’t think a classic tux would be that different. I was very wrong. He looked cool and refined.

Elevated beyond his already otherworldly levels of handsome.