Page 11 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Yeah, see, I don’t buy that.”

The tie tears.

Fuck.

I cling to the only thing I can: the man who’s currently still inside me. “I can order a new one of those,” I squeak, slipping back into customer service mode.

“You’d better. I quite liked it.”

Then, out of the blue, I feel his fingers pulling something out of my hair.

My ponytail comes loose, curls all over the place.

Great.

“In the meantime, I think I’ll take this,” he says, dangling my hair ribbon in front of me. Cornflower blue, just like the ruined tie. “As insurance.”

“April? Elias? Anyone?”

I start squirming and thrashing and whimpering and finally, the man takes the hint, letting me down with a grimace. “Fine. Be that way if you choose.”

“I absolutely will be that way,” I growl back, rushing to put myself back together. My blouse is unsalvageable, but maybe?—

“I thought that wasmyshirt,” the man frowns, watching me steal the dark gray shirt I gave him to try on earlier.

“It will be. In ten to fifteen business days,” I tell him curtly, rolling up the sleeves. “If you decide to purchase.”

“Well, now, I’m not so sure.”

I give him my worst glare. But I can’t waste time trading evil looks with this arrogant, beautiful asshole, because Mr. Boyd is still thumping around in the shop impatiently.

I compose myself as best as I can, watching him do the same in the mirror. There’s a ripple of muscle across his chest, his arms, as he briskly slips on the clothes he came in with.

I force myself to tear my gaze away.

Then, without turning back, I start to head out.

Somehow, he beats me to the door. “Here.” He hands me a business card. “Contact info’s on the back. Address, too, for delivery.”

Frowning, I read over the card.

Matvey Groza, CEO.

“See you at the final fitting,” Mr. Groza drawls, pocketing my hair ribbon. Then, unexpectedly, he picks up my hand and kisses it. “… Ms. Flowers.”

And then, as if nothing happened, he walks.

I hear Mr. Boyd outside going “Oh!”, probably expecting Elias and then noticing at the last second the man in front of him is much paler and much taller and much, much scarier.

The door chimes.

And just like that, he’s gone.

With one last look in the mirror, I head out, calling out a thank you to Mr. Boyd for his patience.

Matvey Groza. Whoever he is, I can tell he’s trouble. It’s better this way, really: I’ve got no desire to ever see him again.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

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