Page 24 of Reckless Vow

When I led her to my car, holding her hand. When I put my hand at the base of her spine.

All the while I fought a hard-on that threatened to tent in my pants. The woman smells like I remember—vanilla and peaches—and all new—sin and temptation.

She’d always had a personality that drew me to her. Tenacious. Stubborn. Mad at the world. But aren’t all teenagers? And that’s what we were back then.

During the few interactions we’ve had since my baffling proposal, I’ve glimpsed the same strength in her, but laced with vulnerability, and fuck if that isn’t attractive.

For a moment, I even considered this one-year marriage might be fun. Like we could really go for it and enjoy each other.

But there are too many unresolved issues between us. Too many burning memories. Too many regrets.

She made her choice all those years ago and I accepted it. It’s not like she is the only woman in the world. Though sometimes it feels that way.

“Oh, these were made for you,” the shop clerk gushes.

I abandon the shelves of ties I’ve been perusing mindlessly and turn to see for myself. I turn too fast because blood rushes to my temples—and my groin—suddenly.

Brook wears a dress that hugs her torso and flares out at her waist into a skirt ending just above her knees.

It’s simple but elegant. Classic. It’s cream rather than white, and I wonder if that’s a coincidence or a choice.

She twirls in front of the mirror and smooths the skirt. The fucking dress is backless.

I’m standing there like an idiot, staring and trying to recall this quarter’s projection for my night clubs to keep my dick from giving opinions about the vision of the woman in front of me.

Brook chats with the clerk, not paying attention to my gawking, and then she leans forward, reaches under the fabric through the openings at her arms and adjusts her tits.

No financial projections can save me. “I have to take this call.” I practically run outside.

I pace the sidewalk to deal with the situation in my pants. I never knew shopping could be this stressful. Why did I want her in a dress, anyway?

She was just fine in those jeans. And now I’m thinking about how amazing her ass looked in them.

Spectacular. That’s how.

And that’s how screwed I am.

I should have never come to the States again. Or gone to visit my mom. Or proposed. So yeah, back to I should have never come to the States.

I take a long breath and, the asshole that I am, I pull the door open and growl, “Are we done here?”

The young clerk and Brook whip around, but Brook recovers first. “It wasn’t my idea to come to begin with. I didn’t want a new dress.”

I didn’t want—or rather—shouldn’t have done a lot of things, but here we are. And since she’s still in the dress that will be the death of me, I turn to the clerk. “She needs shoes with that.”

“Isn’t he charming?” Brook glares at me, and then smiles at the clerk.

The poor woman, who was probably informed I’m a VIP customer, darts her eyes between us and then finds her professionalism and smiles at Brook. “What size are you?”

Another fifteen minutes and the women emerge. She paired the cream dress with bright red stilettos, and there goes my sanity and decency.

Just like that, I don’t care about the dress anymore, because I’m busy picturing her bent over a counter in nothing but those heels.

“Could you just wrap the clothes I came in and ring it up for me,” Brook says, and the clerk moves behind the glass stand with a touch screen while myfiancéepulls out her credit card.

“Over my dead body.” I step to the counter. “Add it to my tab.” I place my loyalty card on the smooth surface.

Brook puts her hands on her hips, her nostrils flaring. “It’s my dress and shoes. I’ll pay for them.”

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