Page 52 of Stick Work

“I bet we can, but we shouldn’t. Still, it’s fun to think about it.” Grinning, he inches back and he takes my hand, twirling me like we’re on the dance floor. He goes thoughtful as I swirl. “How does it feel? Can you easily move in it?”

“I can and I love the feel,” I tell him, as he spins me again. When he pulls me close, I catch sight of us in the floor to ceiling mirror, and my breath catches. We look…perfect. Like we were made to fit together. Without thinking, I let my head rest on his shoulder. His lips brush the side of my neck and my heart does a dangerous little flip.

The bell above the door jingles, jolting me back to reality. I try to pull away—we can’t let anyone see us like this—but he holds me tighter.

“This is the one,” he whispers into the shell of my ear, his warm breath traveling through my body and hitting every erogenous spot along the way.

“Yeah,” I whisper back, barely able to get that one word out.

As I step back, his fingers trail lightly over the back of my neck, lingering just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“I love the zipper,” he murmurs, his touch sliding along the fabric. “Goes all the way down to your lower back. Makes it so easy to get you out of this.”

“An easy escape route,” I tease. “That’s what I always look for in a dress.”

“Smart girl,” he says, his eyes dancing with need and for the briefest of seconds, I let myself think about how easy it would be to fall for this man. He checks the time. “Why don’t you go get out of this? We’re running late, and I want to grab dinner before your class.”

I hurry back into the change room and carefully slip out of the dress. After pulling on my own clothes, I leave the change room, and a measure of disappointment sits in my chest when he’s not there waiting for me. Damn, what the heck is that all about?

Then I hear his voice and I follow it, until I spot him chatting with the clerk. She’s holding out some jewelry, and a smile lights up his face when he notices me approaching.

“What do you think of this necklace?” he asks, showing me a gorgeous, delicate chain with a single olive leaf pearl pendant that would complement the dress.

“I have jewelry,” I tell him.

In a strange public display of affection—we’re not around his family, so no need for that—he pulls me to him. “I know you have jewelry. But what do you think of this?” I’m about to protest, when he asks, “Do you think my mom would like this for Christmas? She loves jewelry, but I’m hopeless when it comes to picking it out. I really could use your opinion.”

“She’d probably love it.”

“Perfect. I’ll take it.” He carefully takes the dress from me. “This too.”

The clerk rings everything in, and we make our way outside, the cool air rushing over us. “I really love the dress, Elias.”

“It’s perfect on you,” he murmurs, his tone low and full of need, as though remembering the changing room and what we would’ve liked to do in it.

“I’m not sure how much wear I’ll get out of it, though,” I admit, suddenly feeling unsure about the extravagant choice. Then again, I have a role to play and he knows better than anyone what I need to be wearing.

He shrugs, unfazed. “You’ll only wear it once.”

I frown, glancing at the bag in his hand. “I don’t know. I usually like to get more than one wear out of fancy stuff. I guess I could always wear it to another wedding.”

“You won’t be able to,” he says, guiding me back to the car.

“I don’t know, maybe?—”

Before I can finish, he leans in. “I’m probably going to tear it off you.”

A hard quiver works its way through my body and I’m pretty sure he knows the pink flush rushing into my cheeks has nothing to do with the cold air. “I take it you like that idea.”

“I do not,” I shoot back quickly. “The dress is too nice and too expensive for that.”

“We’ll see.” His warm laugh in the cold air wraps around me like a cozy blanket. He winks at me. “I won’t ruin your new jewelry, though.”

“Elias!” I smack him and he just laughs. When we reach the car, he opens the door for me, and once I’m inside, he darts around the front and hurries into the driver’s seat.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks, flashing me a mischievous grin. I raise my brow and he laughs. “Food. What do you feel like?”

I hug myself as the cold air seeps under my jacket. “Would it be weird to say chicken pot pie from the Nook?”

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