Page 14

FOURTEEN

LENNON

“You’re late,” I say through clenched teeth the moment he pulls up on that death trap he calls transportation and cuts the engine.

To no surprise, he’s not wearing a helmet because that wouldn’t fit the cliché bad boy image he’s got going on.

Danger, living on the edge, might end up splattered on the pavement… oooh, ah.

Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest, completely and utterly annoyed that I’ve been waiting out here for almost twenty minutes when we just texted about this last night and he confirmed our plans.

It’s early September in southern Louisiana, and I’m nearly drowning in my own sweat from the humidity, and I’m feeling slightly emotionally unstable after the conversation I had with my dad this morning.

It was the first time we’ve spoken since the night of the gala with Chandler, and he truly has no grasp on understanding why I’m beyond upset at him.

If anything, he blames me for “making a scene” and embarrassing him in front of his friends and colleagues.

Hearing that out of his mouth instead of an apology only made me that much more angry, frustrated… and most of all hurt.

I almost felt a sliver of guilt for skating in secret behind their backs, but after talking to him today, I only feel like it’s one step toward gaining back everything he’s taken from me.

“This might surprise you, but my schedule doesn’t revolve around you , Golden Girl.

I had practice, and I barely had time to shower before coming all the way over here,” he grunts as he swings his leg over his bike and shoves his keys into the pocket of his athletic shorts.

Now that he mentioned a shower, I see his dark, unruly hair is still wet and curling at the ends around his nape, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved since the last time I saw him, a dusting of hair covering his chiseled jaw.

Not that I allow myself more than a second to look because… No. I am not going there.

This is strictly a mutually beneficial business arrangement.

“Well, my schedule also does not revolve around you , Satan. You’re like thirty minutes late,” I retort.

“I’m here, aren’t I? You know, I’m starting to think you’ve got a degrading kink or something with how much you like to talk shit to me. Does it get you hot?” he asks, a lopsided grin pulling at his full lips.

I haven’t a single clue why, but his crass words cause my pulse to race.

I push down the strange feeling swirling in my stomach and scoff. “You wish. Seems like something you’d be into.”

His shoulder lifts. “I’m into a lot of things. None of which you could handle.”

Like… what? I want to ask, even though I shouldn’t care.

I hate him and literally everything about him. I do not need to know what kind of depraved, kinky things he’s into.

“Mmmm, Golden Girl’s blushing.” My gaze snaps to him and off the tight contour of his bicep beneath the black T-shirt he’s wearing. “I think I’m onto something. Miss prim and proper likes it dirty, doesn’t she?”

Ignoring the rapid patter in my chest, I turn toward the tailor shop and swallow hard. I can hear him chuckling behind me, and it makes me consider turning back just to throttle him.

He’s so smug… and arrogant. Infuriating.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” The rough, low timbre of his voice sounds next to my neck, where he dips his head, lips almost brushing against my ear.

I can feel the heat of his breath caressing the shell of my ear, and I nearly shiver.

It takes every ounce of control in my body to stop the visceral reaction. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Something tells me that nothing is safe when it comes to Saint Devereaux and that I should remember that no matter what.

“Are you done yet?” I mutter, my voice slightly shaky.

A beat passes between us, heavy and thick with something expectant, before he reaches past me, wraps his large hand around the handle of the door, and starts to open it. “Ladies first.”

His hand finds the small of my back, a gesture that I would think to be gentlemanlike if I didn’t know who he was. Still, it causes my stomach to dance in a foreign way.

Once we step inside the custom tailor, I have a hard time focusing, my gaze locking on Saint as he looks around the modern store with light gray walls, marble tables, and luxurious gold fixtures. There’s a large chandelier with hundreds of crystals gleaming brightly in the center of the room.

“Fancy,” he grunts, running the pad of his finger along the soft fabric lining the tables.

It’s not the first time I’ve been in Bordeaux’s.

They’ve been in New Orleans for nearly a century, providing custom tailoring for the people who can afford the ridiculous price tag.

Which is exactly why I brought Saint here in the first place.

I’ve purchased things from here in the past for other events, and if my dad sees the charge on my account, he won’t think twice about it.

He just won’t know what I’m buying… or for whom.

A tuxedo fit for a king. It just so happens to be the king of hell.

“Miss Rousseau, hello! Welcome in.” Leo, the tailor I called this morning to make our appointment with, greets us, his blue eyes warm and welcoming as he glances between Saint and me. “And you must be Mr. Devereaux? Pleased to meet you.”

He extends his hand toward Saint, who glances down at it, then back up, arching a brow but making no move to return the gesture.

I quickly step in, pasting on a bright smile. “Yes, uh, we’re in a bit of a hurry today, Leo, sorry!”

Leo nods enthusiastically, wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. “Absolutely no problem. I’ll just pull a few of the most popular colors and fabrics this season and be back in just a moment.”

Once he walks away, I narrow my eyes at Saint and scowl. “Can you not be so rude? Jesus.”

“Just keeping up appearances. Asshole, remember? Gotta keep up the act.” I hate that stupid smirk that turns his lips up, showing the slight dimple in his cheek.

“Yeah, no acting necessary,” I retort. “You being an asshole comes naturally.”

He chuckles as he walks over and stops in front of me. I can see the slight golden ring that circles his dark irises, like molten honey, and he opens his mouth like he may say something but just shakes his head instead.

I put distance between us, looking around at the various bow ties in glass cases scattered along the wall.

A few minutes later, Leo returns, fabrics laid over his arms to present to Saint.

Who clearly doesn’t know or care about what he wears to the event, so I make a choice for him, hoping that it’s the right one.

Once Leo disappears once again to the back to prepare for the fitting, Saint turns toward me. “So what’s the plan? You’re just going to dress me up in a monkey suit and parade me around until daddy loses his mind?”

“A monkey suit ?” I sputter, “ That is a two-thousand-dollar Saint Laurent.”

“Do you think I give a shit about that?” he deadpans, expression flat, and I sigh.

Yet another reminder that he and I… we exist in two very different worlds, and I’m not really sure whether that’s a good or bad thing anymore.

“I don’t know exactly what the plan is yet, but yeah, it does require you to dress up and go to a black-tie event. That’s why we’re here. Obviously, I’m not here by choice. They have a dress code, so for you to even walk through the door, you have to look the part.”

Saint smirks. “And you don’t think daddy dearest is going to grill either of us the first chance he gets when you spring this on him? Like how all of a sudden, you’re fucking with a guy like me?”

My stomach drops. Shit.

He’s right… and I’ve been so caught up in trying to figure out the particulars of this entire stupid arrangement to even think about that.

“Just wanna make sure I’m prepared for whatever shit’s coming my way.”

I nod. “I mean, he could ask questions. Unlikely, but he might. He’s mostly concerned with how it looks for him, not what’s actually happening in my life, so the image alone of the two of us ‘together’ should be enough. I guess if he asks, just go with the truth. We met at school.”

It’s not the full truth, but it’s the closest thing to it.

Technically, we did meet at school.

“I can tell him how you fell for me the second you stepped on the ic?—”

“No,” I blurt, cutting him off, my spine straightening. When his brow arches, I blow out a dejected sigh. “I… He doesn’t know. That I’m skating again, so please do not bring that up at any point, ever. I’m serious, Saint. Please.”

I want to piss my dad off and make him understand that I am never, under absolutely zero circumstances, ever getting back together with Chandler, but I don’t want to completely ruin our relationship for the rest of eternity by him finding out that I’ve been lying and keeping this from him.

And I definitely don’t want to give him the opportunity to find a way to somehow shut it down again.

It’s just another tear in the already unraveling relationship.

“Golden Girl’s got secrets. Who would’ve thought,” he mumbles, gaze snapping to Leo as he walks back into the room with a dress shirt draped over his arms.

“Sorry to interrupt. Please try this on, and we can check and see how it fits, especially the arm length.” Leo passes the fabric to Saint and promptly leaves, clearly picking up on the vibes that he gives off.

My jaw nearly hits the floor as I watch Saint reach for the neck of his T-shirt and pull it over his head, dropping it onto the chair beside him.

I knew he was in shape—he’s a hockey player, so that’s to be expected—but holy… shit.

He looks like he was carved by a renowned sculptor, molded from the most exquisite marble, with rows and rows of abs and an Adonis belt that tapers into the sweatpants slung low on his hips.

For the very first time, I worry about what I have actually gotten myself into.