Page 37 of Mr. Misunderstood

“Kayla,” Gavin growls through the door.

“Do you even know what this event is for?” I slip my feet into the two-inch black heels.

“I know there will be cameras and a red carpet outside,” he reports. “We’re going to the Cipriani space downtown.”

“Fancy,” I murmur.

“Wait until you see the food.”

“Hold the dogs. I’m coming out.” I wait until the sound of K-9 nails on the hardwood floor dies down. “Ready?”

“You’re clear. I put them in the other guest room.”

I open the door and step into the hall. Gavin’s lips part and his eyes widen. He scans me from head to toe. “You look good with your hair up.”

“I’m wearing a dress that resembles a spandex leotard, and you’re looking at my hair?”

“A leotard with long sleeves and a hem line that reaches the floor,” he fires back. “Your dress leaves a lot to the imagination.”

I turn and offer him a view of my back. The U-shaped opening dips to my waist. A Celtic knot pattern crisscrosses the opening. “As you can imagine, I can’t wear a bra.”

“No. You can’t,” he murmurs. There is a husky note to his voice that I feel should come with a warning. Something about his tone scrambles my common sense. I’m tempted to retort Want to see?

But then reality sets in. This is Gavin. I’m not pulling my dress over my head in the hallway to show my best friend my breasts. Even if I decide to toss sanity into the wind and reach for the hemline, I would probably get stuck—literally and figuratively.

I can’t live in Gavin Black’s world, not in the long-term anyway. Gavin runs from failure. Sure, his quest for perfection is different from my ex. Gavin’s emotional stability depends on his quest for success. He’s not fighting for money and status like Mr. Mistake. But success, especially at his level, demands control. And I can’t be a long-term pawn in his game, waiting for him to move me around the chessboard he’s designed for himself.

I turn around to face him again. His gaze briefly meets mine. I see the faint traces o

f lust but choose to ignore it for now because that’s what friends do.

“Head for the elevator,” he says, the husky note noticeably absent from his tone now. “Once you’re inside, I’ll release the dogs.”

“Then you’ll run to meet me?” I ask.

He nods.

“And the pet sitter will be here soon?” I refuse to leave all of my animals alone in the apartment for more than an hour.

“One of my assistants is on her way,” Gavin confirms. “Now go to the elevator.”

Twenty minutes later, I take Gavin’s hand and step out of the limo onto Wall Street. A large tent stands in front of the Cipriani building. He offers his arm and I place one hand on his tux sleeve. Together we head for the check-in desk.

The red carpet area is just beyond the row of iPads waiting to assign everyone a bidding number for the silent auction. I know how this works. I lived in this world once upon a time—until I realized my personal fairy godmother would turn the footmen into animals, not the other way around.

“Are you ready?” Gavin whispers.

I look up at him. His brow is drawn together as if he’s reconsidering our entire plan. I can practically feel the weight of his thoughts resting on his shoulders and leaving every muscle in his body tense. In his mind, everything—his reputation, his business, and his identity—rides on tonight.

“We’ve got this,” I whisper back. I don’t tell him not to worry or waste his time on being afraid. He has every right to be scared right now.

He escorts me to the desk and graciously accepts our table assignment and number. Then we waltz up the red carpet. I hear photographers calling his name. He offers a tight wave and a smile. There’s a photo op space before the revolving doors. The banner reads End Hunger.

“A worthy charity,” I say.

“I’m glad you approve.”

Gavin presses forward, and soon we’re standing in front of a long row of cameras. He lowers his arm and draws me close to him. His hand rests on my hip. I offer a smile to the cameras.

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