Page 47 of Hush Money
But having someone remind you that you’re not worth anything can be damaging in ways that feel like they will never be fixed. Having someone solidify the ugly thoughts you have about yourself make them that much harder to ignore.
I’m on my way back, though. I’m letting myself have things I think I deserve. Not just deserve—want. I’m making decisions based onme.I’m getting little pieces of myself back that I wasn’t sure I’d see again.
So having a dress be specifically fitted to my body? Wearing something that feels like it was made just for me?
I’m going to let myself have that.
And boy, did I.
Aaron, the stylist, matched tones and colors and fabrics to me. He talked to me about necklines and hemlines and some other kind of lines. He had me stand in front of a few mirrors while he tested some dresses out under different lighting.
And then he wrapped me in this emerald-green dress that he said matched my eyes, and I felt like Cinderella had just left her fairy godmother.
I have never felt more beautiful than I do in this dress.
Except for maybe when Keaton drags those eyes over my body.
Aaron picked out a pair of strappy nude sandals with a wide enough heel that I feel confident in my ability to walk in them and a matching nude clutch. The final piece was a shimmery nude shawl, and he sent me on my way.
Now, I’m sitting in the bathroom of Keaton’s guest suite, having my hair done by a professional that Sawyer also recommended and a makeup artist who is currently putting on so much mascara I’m worried if I close my eyes, I won’t be able to open them again.
When they both step away from me, I do a double-take.
The fabric has this give to it that makes me feel sexy. It hugs my body in all the places that Keaton has kissed. All the places he refuses to let me hide.
They have done my hair in an elegant updo, one of those that looks strategically messy on purpose, and my makeup is flawless.
I swallow as they exit the bathroom and make their way down the hall, saying their goodbyes to Keaton as they leave. I appear at the end of the hallway, and I see him talking to Mac, looking as dazzling as ever in his perfect fucking suit.
Fuck the gown, the suit, the makeup, the hair. All of it.
I just want to fuckhim.
I draw in a breath as his eyes find me, scanning me from head to toe, his tongue jutting out to lick his lips. Then they tug up into this dangerously sexy half-smile as he walks toward me, meeting me in the middle.
“Jesus, you’re perfect,” he whispers. He bends down to leave a soft, careful kiss on my lips.
“Little more flattering than my usual sweats and flannel, huh?” I ask, visibly uncomfortable. He knows how bad I am at accepting compliments. But he doesn’t waver. He reaches his hand out and takes one of mine, lifting it to his lips.
“Sweetheart, there is no such thing as unflattering when it comes to you,” he says. “There is no version of you that doesn’t melt me into a fucking puddle.”
I giggle and roll my eyes, but his expression doesn’t change.
I’m not used to this full, undivided attention he gives me, and I don’t quite know what to do with it. “This dress is beautiful. It was made for you. I want tobethis dress. Be wrapped around you like this. My next favorite is when you’re wearing something of mine. You’re comfortable, but you’re claimed. You’re all mine.” I smile, staring up into his big gray eyes, listening intently. “But, no questions asked, hands down, my favorite is when you’re naked in my bed.”
I laugh, but then I realize, he’s not kidding.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I love every single inch of your body, Evie Dawson. It’s even better than I ever could have imagined. And I imagined it plenty.” Then he pulls me in for another kiss, expertly kissing me so that my makeup stays intact. “Now, let’s go before I rip this thing off of you.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I whisper back with a smile. His hand slides down and gently taps my ass.
“Don’t tempt me, Dawson,” he says, his voice low and gritty and making me squeeze my
legs together. We get on the elevator, get in the car, and make the drive out to Bedell House.
When we pull up, a little under an hour later, I’m a bit shellshocked. Mac types a code in at the huge iron gates, his hand is scanned, and then the gates open, and we start up theextra-long driveway. I remember Keaton once telling me that the driveway itself was a mile long. And as we approach, I forgot how fucking massive this place is. How perfectly manicured it is. The huge stone palace sits on this tract of land on Long Island that Keaton’s great-great grandfather had built once they struck oil. His family lived here for decades until Cato decided to build his own estate, Bendmere, about thirty miles out.
When Keaton’s grandpa died, he left the house to the family in the will with the agreement that public tours would still be permitted, and no unnecessary updates, additions, or changes would be made to the property.
