Page 60 of The Biting Bargain

"Everything under control," I say in a totally normal voice, rinsing my fingers under the faucet and fumbling for a reasonably clean towel. Then I dash back. Vincent is standing in my hallway like a dark monolith, measuring everything with a scrutinizing gaze.

Then it lands on me and I feel tingly all over.

"How long do you need?"

"Just a few minutes," I say quickly, fiddling with the hem of my dress.

"Hurry." His voice is dark, still holding the heat from our conversation in the club. I nod, dashing past him into my tiny bedroom.

As I rip open the drawers of my dresser and gather some clothes, I try to ignore the fact that I actually brought him here. Here. To my apartment. My sanctum sanctorum. My safe space.

This was a mistake.

I never would have brought him in here, but since we’re tied by this curse, I had no choice. And I couldn't leave him in the hallway either, could I? With the neighbors nosing around, or Marigold could have seen him and I'd want to answer her questions even less. And outside the house, waiting in his limo, the distance might have been too much and he could have shifted. So I bloody well took him inside. And I never bring guys into my home. Never has a man entered this place since I've moved here.

And never one that makes my heart jump every time he looks at me.

Get a grip, Polly. It’s only business.

I pull my gym bag out from under the bed, randomly stuff a few clothes into it — underwear, t-shirts — gather up some socks and a pair of PJs.

You're only his companion, I tell myself. It’s only business. And this is just a pit stop to pick up my stuff. I can't be hanging around in some filthy rich vampire's mansion for heck knows how long wearing fancy couture or nothing at all. I need my clothes. I need my laptop. I need my damn phone charger. And I couldn't care less if Vincent judges my shabby accommodations with discerning eyes or not. It's my home, and if he doesn't like it, he can cry and call his maman for all I care.

I pull open the next drawer, more out of habit than intention, and falter. With a twinge in my chest, my gaze glides over my finished projects. There it is, carefully folded and brightly colored like the inside of a candy bag, my collection of custom-made lingerie.

Sighing, I pull out a pair of panties and matching bralette, made of pink soft fabric, covered all over with tiny little marshmallows.

The entire thing was more of a joke to get back out of my hole after the break-up with Patrick. On a particularly dreary Saturday, Marigold and Luna dragged me to a fabric market and made me buy all the fabrics they could find. Of course, they knew about my Achilles heel — cute patterns and little animals, bright colors.

Yeah, that’s me. I can’t help it. I like cute shit.

"You need to get back to tailoring, babe. Get that jerk out of your head somehow."

And I did. For nights on end I hunched over my sewing machine, embroidering my fingers to the bone, cutting fabrics, sewing and cursing, and then spinning in front of the mirror, wearing my own creations.

For a while, it even helped me forget about the whole fuck-up with Patrick.

I put the panties back, pulling out a negligee next. It’s white, littered with cute, winking stars and lined with pale pink lace. I sewed a ridiculously tiny g-string to match, because there was still a ridiculously tiny triangle of fabric left.

"Why don't you open your own online store?"

"You totally should. Your stuff is so cute. People would pay you real money for those! Seriously!"

Yeah, right. Like anyone would buy bumblingly stapled-together panties. I sigh, fold up the thong and negligee and place it back in the drawer. My girls have been on my case for over a year about selling my stuff online. Setting up social media accounts. Start the whole marketing thing. Finally getting out there. More so than finally signing up for design school.

My fingertips glide over the fabric and I pull out a third set. My heart does a little hop at the sight of the pastel fabric covered all over with miniature stars, in all colors of the rainbow.

I have been craving to wear my own stuff for days. Designer clothes are great, no question. But the little piece of fabric in my hand suddenly gives me a sense of security. Some shred of my own power I’ve been missing since the whole mess started a week ago.

Without thinking twice, I peel out of my dress and out of the silken underwear I got from Vincent's designers for tonight, and slip into my panties. The soft fabric hugs my butt like a cozy pillow. I quickly put on the matching bralette that has my boobs covered with a sparkling spatter of sequins.

I might look like a circus horse, but I don’t care. For the first time in days I feel quite like myself again.

I quickly grab my clothes to get dressed, when behind me a floorboard creaks. My throat goes dry. In the mirror I see Vincent standing on the threshold. He fills the doorway almost completely, and looks as if he came in to ask why this is taking so damn long, but now the words get stuck in his throat.

"Sorry," I say over my shoulder, fumbling with the dress. "I..."

With three big strides, he's right behind me, crowding me against my dresser. His body heat envelops me like a warm coat as he places his large hands to my left and right. I wince as the tickle of his breath in my neck produces a cascade of shivers down my back.

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