Page 42 of Into the Woods

Aside from a grunt, there’s no response, just the near-silent click of the door closing me in here with Christophe.

“What is this?” I glance at the case and garment bag.

“Shit, you need to get yourself ready.” Christophe settles into a club chair, stacking his ankle on the opposite knee.

I huff out a laugh, hands propped on my hips. “You had your dude pack up the stuff from my room and bring it down here?”

“I did.”

He can’t mean for me to get ready here—in his office.

“What if he forgot something?”

“Everything is there,” he says, focused on his phone.

“And—what?—you’re just going to sit there and watch?”

He lifts his gaze, spearing me with it.

I wish he’d go back to staring at his phone.

I wish he’d let me go back to my room.

I wish he’d just let me go.

“You need to be supervised.” He repeats his earlier statement but slower, enunciating each word like I don’t understand them.

I’m not an idiot; I understand the words, just not the implication behind them.

I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at him.

It doesn’t take long for tension to swirl thick between us.

The way Christophe arches his brow at me, his lush bottom lip pinched between his forefinger and thumb, doesn’t help to dissipate that tension, and I shift, rubbing my thighs together to try and alleviate desire pooling in my core.

I don’t want to be turned on. I want to be pissed. I want to scream and yell and rage. I want to slap that smug, sensual, beautiful look off his sexy face.

Tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill over and slide down my face. But I don’t want to show him anything—no frustration,no emotion, nothing. I blink rapidly, gnawing on the inside of my lip. Anything to stall and try to compose myself.

After a shaky exhale I ask, “Are there requirements? Anything I need to pay particular attention to?”

I know I screwed up by not even trying at dinner the other night, but I’m not the girliest of girls. I do okay with makeup, but as a rule, I keep things simple. I’ve never wanted to draw attention to myself.

Christophe tilts his head, assessing me. His gaze darts to the garment bag and his lips twitch as if he’s not willing to allow a smile to breach his hard exterior. He slides his tongue along his bottom lip and pulls it between his teeth. The look is carnal. Predatory.Shit hot.

“You’ve taken marketing courses, make your product as irresistible as you can. After all, you have a debt to cover.”

How does he know what I’ve studied in school? I didn’t tell him, did I?

We haven’t talked about much beyond what I owe him and how he expects me to pay. But he knows things. Christophe seems to know things about me that aren’t as simple as common knowledge.

I expect him to know stuff about my parents; they were the ones who worked for him. But me? That doesn’t make sense.

He indicates the makeshift vanity area with a nod. “Best get to it. You’ve only got this one opportunity to shine. Once that pretty little cherry’s been popped, you won’t be nearly as valuable.”

His words leave me speechless, once again on the verge of tears.

“You can’t stay in this little corner of the woods waiting for opportunity to come to you. You have to put yourself together and go grab what you need by the balls.”

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