Page 47 of Mile High Daddy

I arch a brow. “Would you rather stay here?”

She huffs, looking down at the dress. She runs her fingers over the silk, her lips pressing together. “It’s beautiful,” she admits quietly.

I watch her carefully, noting the way her throat moves as she swallows.

“I expect you to wear it,” I say, voice smooth.

Her gaze snaps back up to mine, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Of course you do.”

I smirk. “Be ready in an hour.”

I turn and walk away before she can argue.

I leanagainst the black Rolls-Royce, checking my watch.

She’s late.

Not by much, but enough to make me wonder if she’s hesitating.

Torres is a few feet away, speaking in low tones to one of the drivers, his sharp gaze occasionally flicking toward the entrance. He hasn’t said anything more about his concerns, but I can feel his disapproval, thick as the summer heat pressing down on us.

And then I see her.

The second she steps out of the house, I go completely still.

The emerald silk clings to her in all the right places, the delicate straps showcasing the soft curve of her shoulders. Her hair cascades in loose waves down her back, and when the breezeshifts, I catch the faintest hint of something floral, something warm.

Something hers.

My heart stutters in a way it never has before.

She pauses at the top of the steps, her gaze finding mine instantly. Even from this distance, I can see the way she hesitates—how she shifts on her feet, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her dress.

And then, as if sensing the effect she has on me, her lips curve slightly.

She descends the steps, her heels clicking softly against the stone, moving like she owns the moment. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

And maybe she does.

When she finally reaches me, she crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly.

“Well,” she says, arching a brow. “You clean up nicely, husband.”

The word drips with sarcasm, and despite myself, I smirk.

I open the car door for her. “Get in.”

She lifts a brow, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she slips inside, her dress sliding against the leather seat, exposing just enough of her leg to make my pulse hammer harder than it should.

As the door closes behind me, I can feel her watching me. Waiting.

The driver starts the engine, the low rumble filling the air.

“Try not to fall in love with me tonight, wife.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she looks out the window.

The city lights flicker through the tinted windows, casting fleeting patterns of gold and red over Lila’s skin. She’s sitting across from me in the spacious back seat, one leg crossed over the other, the emerald dress draped like liquid over her thighs.

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