Page 52 of Butterfly

Again, it bloody hurts. Yes, I’m an egocentric bastard who believed she’d have been all happy about dating me. I surprise myself with my bloody flaws. But for her, I’m ready to learn the lesson.

She isn’t completely charmed. Got it.

She isn’t convinced. All right.

I won’t take her for granted. Never.

I have to work to earn her love and respect. Challenge accepted.

“Dinner tomorrow? Our dinner?” I hold her closer. Her muscles tense under the T-shirt.

“Yes.” Her long eyelashes flap over her cheeks. “It’d be great.”

“Good.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “I’d better go now.” I don’t want to, but I won’t gain her respect by stalking her and imposing my presence here. Besides, the fatigue and the jet lag are catching up with me. And she doesn’t ask me to stay, anyway.

“Where are we going tomorrow?” She stands up, which triggers Dart’s excitement. I can relate.

“De Ville.” I booked a table a while ago, hoping the date would fit. Calculating bastard? Check.

A flash of panic flickers across her face. “Don’t they have a dress code there?”

“The little black dress you wore at Martin’s is perfect. Don’t get too stressed over the clothes. As long as you don’t wear sweats, you’re fine. The food is great, and the place is awesome.” I kiss her parted lips because I have to. “See you tomorrow.”

“Night, Knightley.”

Seventeen

Sienna

DON’T STRESS OVER the dress, Alex said. Don’t stress my foot.

Everything is happening too fast for me. I didn’t expect him to pop into my flat last night. I didn’t expect him to ravish me with his all-consuming, contagious hunger as well. And certainly, I didn’t expect to go to De Ville, the most expensive restaurant in London—and the fifth most expensive restaurant in the world. I googled it—wearing a little black dress. But my options are limited. My wardrobe doesn’t have anything remotely fashionable or worthy of De Ville, and thanks to Alex’s hurry, I didn’t have time to shop.

I sigh in front of the mirror. The little black dress seems okay, I guess. The fabric shines with a glossy hue after I washed it with a colour enhancer and ironed it within an inch of its life. The long sleeves cover my wrists. Although Alex didn’t ask me any more questions about my scar, his gaze often flickers there, and I’d rather keep it covered. The shoes are decent. Simple black court shoes that have a few inches of heels, comfortable enough for me to walk without staggering. After trying the bloody smoky eye make-up for the entire day, I reached a respectable result. My eyes look bigger with the silver and pale-blue eyeshadow fading into black at the corners, and my hair is all shiny and curly after the avocado hair mask. What more can I do? Reincarnation? I envy those women who manage to apply their make-up flawlessly and find a dress that matches their complexion exactly. Black sounds safe to me. Classic, elegant, and Audrey Hepburn loved it.

That’s it. I’m as ready as I can be. Physically, that is. Psychologically, I don’t believe I’d ever be ready to go out with Alex and be his ‘girlfriend.’ He sounded honest last night, almost pained when he tried to explain to me how he sees our relationship. I’m not going to lie. Doubt is gnawing at me from every side. It’s not the secrecy that bothers me. I’m all for it. But how long will our relationship last? Should I even worry about that? Phoebe said to have fun. Maybe I should.

I scroll through my social media because, since I’m dating Alex, I’ve become more interested in movie star gossip. Emily posted a puzzling post about Dart having been through a hard time. The hashtag #JusticeForDart doesn’t make any— The intercom gives a buzz, and I gasp. A shock of stillness goes through me before I open the front gate to Alex. He’s knocking on my door a moment later. He must climb those stairs five steps at a time. Certainly, he has the leg power for that.

When I open the door, I can’t help but let out a breathy gasp. Man, he’s breathtakingly handsome in a dark suit, pearl-grey tie, and crisp white shirt. His smooth skin doesn’t show any signs that he might be suffering from jet lag. If anything, he’s ready for the red carpet and the flashes of the cameras. Blimey. I’m going out with him.

He beams, flashing his white teeth and that secret smile he reserves for me. A fresh bunch of flowers is in his hands. Only red roses that look like they’re made of burgundy velvet.

“You look fantastic,” he says, stepping inside. His clean, heady scent mingles with that of the roses in a potent, aphrodisiac mix that has my head spinning.

“Thank you.” I place the roses in yet another pot, earning a displeased glare from him.

“No vases yet?”

“Er…no.” My hands are nearly shaking when I remove the ribbons and plastic sheet around the stems.

“I mean to buy you as many flowers as I want. So you’d better get some.” He steps behind me and brushes my hair from my shoulder to kiss my neck.

An immediate shot of sensation spears through me right to my core. His soft, warm lips find a sensitive spot right below my ear.

“You smell so damn good,” he whispers against my skin.

My spine wilts under the assault of his kisses. “Are you sure my dress is all right?”

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