Page 50 of Babies for the Big Shot
My heart skips a beat. My knees weaken, barely holding me upright. I clutch the doorframe, desperate for something steady.
He doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
His gaze starts at my heels and climbs upward, every inch measured with fierce restraint. When our eyes lock, hunger flashes there, raw and silent. He wants to speak, but the words catch somewhere between wanting and needing.
The sales associate, Bianca, bless her immortal vampire soul, lets out the most delicate little cough. The kind rich people probably train for. It’s the sound of someone politely excusing themselves from the blast radius of whateverthisis.
He lifts a brow. “That’s the one.”
“I don’t need a dress this expensive,” I blurt, too fast. “I need socks. And a therapist. And maybe a Costco membership.”
Bianca chooses that moment to reappear, breezing in with a tablet and a terrifyingly efficient smile. “Shall I wrap it up?”
Nick doesn’t look at her.
His eyes are still locked on mine. Quiet. Steady. Intense enough to short-circuit logic.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black card, never looking away from me as he hands it over.
“Wrap it up, please.”
Oh god.
This gala is going to be…interesting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nick
Charity galas area polished kind of hell.
Overfunded, overlit, overpopulated by men who think philanthropy is a shortcut to moral high ground. The same empty laughter. The same strategic compliments. The same auction items recycled from last year’s tax write-offs.
I show up, stay visible long enough to justify the donation, and leave before the speeches begin to loop. It’s never personal. It’s business with canapés. A handshake parade dressed in black tie.
But tonight, the calculation is skewed.
She’s here.
Sara Brooks, seated next to me in the back of the car, quiet, composed, entirely unaware of the effect she’s having. Or worse… completely aware.
The dress is green. Satin. Minimal fabric, maximum impact. Her legs are crossed, her posture effortless, her gaze fixed on the window as if I’m not watching her. But I am.
More than I should.
I’ve had to reset my expectations of what counts as control.
She clears her throat. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I exhale. “Fine.”
She adjusts the clutch in her lap, one subtle shift that turns my restraint into something barely functional. My pulse kicks.
