by Snow, Nicole
“You realize I’m only doing this for money, right?” I whimper.
Nick gives me a smirk for the ages.
“If I thought you’d do it for free, I wouldn’t have offered five figures.”
“You’re a dick,” I sputter.
Blah. Bad Reese.
He’s my boss and obviously I shouldn’t have said that but...
...but what in all that’s holy is he doing to me?
“Nah. I didn’t even have to bribe you with cotton candy this time,” he jokes, chuckling quietly as I flip him the middle finger.
It’s a quick ride from his place to State Street. I pull up in front of the door, expecting him to get out. When he doesn’t, I undo my seatbelt and turn around, looking him dead in the eye.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Letting you pick up your dress. Why should I ruin the surprise?”
“Nope. Not going in alone. You’re coming in,” I say.
“I’m cool.” He clears his throat. “Reese, what if the dress needs alterations?”
“They do alterations here?” I say, turning to look over the fancy storefront. It looks like a full-service place, at least, with low lights and colorful dresses in the windows.
“Where do you shop?” he asks.
“Big box stores or online. That was always good enough.” Until now, I think but don’t say.
“This is a bit more eloquent, in case you didn’t notice.”
Oh, I noticed, smartass.
Even so, I shrug. “I’m sure you’ve never set foot in a big box store, but you shouldn’t knock it. It totally beats paying a hundred bucks for a t-shirt.”
“You’re impossible, lady. And I assure you I’ve bought shirts that run me eight hundred dollars if the style fits. It’s your turn to enjoy dressing to match your looks.” Smiling, he shakes his head. “Now, please find a damn place to park, so we can pick up your dress.”
* * *
Here we go. Straight down the mouth of a billionaire Twilight Zone.
What the hell did I agree to? The valet takes the Lincoln away, sweeping a low bow before he climbs in.
My hand trembles. My boss takes it in his.
“That dress brings out your eyes,” he says in this low smoldering growl.
For a second, with his confidence, I believe I look like I belong here.
Then I look down because I don’t even remember what color I’m wearing. Only that I’m covered in more sequins than a mermaid. This lonely dress costs more than every outfit I’ve ever owned.
Oh, look at that. It’s emerald teal-green. A shade dangerously closer to my “date’s” eyes than mine.
I still can’t believe I agreed to this.
Whatever happens next, remember, I’m just here for the cash.
Nick Brandt has a worse reputation than most of Hollywood. He has Instagram groupies reposting him daily as the 'hottest bad boy bachelor in the Windy City.'
He doesn’t do relationships.
He hooks up and moves on—and more importantly—I work for him. I’m just pretending to be his flavor of the month.
He leans in and whispers, “When we go in, expect cameras everywhere. Osprey and his goons never fucking quit. Just try to ignore them. I wish it were socially acceptable to wear aviators to these damn things to block out the flashes.”
I don’t say anything. I just stare, feeling my pulse pounding in my ears.
Yep, I’m terrified.
He must notice because he says, “You’ll be fine. You’re beautiful, you’re tough, and you’re hanging on my arm. Three things most women would die for.”
Whoa.
He thinks I’m beautiful? Tough? Never mind the parting egomaniac shot.
It’s that—him, whispering those words—that buoys me up the soaring white marble staircase and through the palace-like glassy doors.
We step into the building together. Cameras flash like heat lightning.
He’s my boss, not my boyfriend. Breathe, I remind myself.
It’s stupid, but as I blink the brightness out of my eyes, my instinct is to lean into him. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Definitely not the way he winds his arms around me, catching me as I misstep and nearly stumble.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod briskly, my hair flying.
“You’re sure?”
Another ambush of flashes attack my retinas before I can answer.
“I’m just...getting a little dizzy. Any chance we can get away from the cameras for a second?”
“Follow me.” He leads me by the hand away from the paparazzi, deeper into a crowd of well-dressed people. He introduces me to what looks like an older couple as my eyes readjust to normal light. “Reese, this is Mr. and Mrs. Winthrope. They’re a big deal in hotels and real estate.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, mustering my best smile.
“Delighted. Who is this beauty?” Mr. Winthrope asks, giving Nick a weirdly assessing look.
“My date tonight, Reese Halle.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Halle,” the Winthropes say in unison.
Yep, I’m getting Titanic vibes, except I feel like a female Jack. Dressed the part, but lacking all the social grace big money brings.
He introduces me to a few people who were friends with his dearly departed grandfather, and more folks who are still friends with Beatrice. I even meet the mayor.
This is bananas.
Growing up an orphan, I’ve only ever met people at school or work, and they sure as hell weren’t power elite. I keep waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I don’t belong here.
I’ve never worn a formal evening gown before.
Orphans don’t get prom dresses.
For a second, I wonder what it’s like to be a Brandt. Is it always this intense? This magical?
What it’s like having grandparents with friends who know half of Chicago? Hell, what’s it like even having grandparents?
Abby and I went through so many foster families, we didn’t really know any of them. We floated, the two of us, like feathers on the wind.
Luckily, we were kept together for the most part, but sometimes we were forced apart.
I was over the moon when she finally turned eighteen and they let her be my guardian. We didn’t have to worry about being separated anymore.
Ever since, we’ve been inseparable. Kind of comes with the territory when your big sister’s your only family.
Being separated from her—completely alone—was the scariest feeling I’ve ever had.
Something tells me Nick never had to deal with feeling unloved. Abandoned.
Sure, there was that drama with his parents accidentally killing off a popular movie star, and the scandal that plagued them. But being ripped away from your only family?
That’s alien pain to a billionaire playboy’s universe.
Speaking of green-eyed Lucifer, he places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me along to the next person he wants to introduce.
All things considered, he’s being a perfect gentleman. Even if I catch his eyes lingering on my ass a couple times.
I smile at him. He’s trying. Sincerely.
And I’m starting to enjoy the ride. It’s a new experience that should mean something.
Back in foster care, the only dreams I ever had were being out on my own, taking care of myself. I didn’t trust anyone except Abby—and even my brightest dreams couldn’t have cooked up the bounty spread before us.
A refreshment table, covered with gourmet chocolate fountains, tiny pastries, and pristine melons cut into swans and blooming flowers. I move in for a closer look, trying not to rub my eyes, expecting to wake up.
Something bright flashes in my peripheral vision. Another camera?
Jesus. One of them got inside.
But when I blink and turn my head to find the flash, I stop cold.
Bossman stands beside me, phone in his hand, snapping pictures.
/> I raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Capturing my knockout date in that fuck-hot dress for posterity,” he says, eyeing me over the top of the phone.
He’s so ridiculous. I giggle.
“Why bother?”
“Because she’s downright sinful tonight,” he whispers. “Plus, I’m fairly certain the next time she wears a dress this elegant, it won’t be for me. I’ll be in the corner after delivering a big wedding speech, jealous enough for ten lifetimes.”
Holy hell. I can’t.
I’m used to a lot of things from my boss, but when he’s sweet...that’s when he whacks me off guard and I’m just spinning.
Realistically, I doubt I’ll ever wear this kind of dress again. I won’t have a reason.
I’ve been on dates before, sure, but with guys who think bowling coupons and cheap beer are a rocking night out.
A strange, enchanted part of me wouldn’t want to wear it for anyone else. Blame it on the Cinderella aesthetic here.
Obviously, there’s no way I can tell him that.
He’s still my boss.
Before I can dwell on it, though, he slips his phone away, takes my hand, and leads me to the ballroom floor.
At first, I’m so awestruck by everything around me that I’m putty in his hands. The lights, the ginormous crystal chandeliers, the cascade of famous faces all around us...
I feel woozy.
Then the crowd parts for us, and I see it. He’s not doing what I think he is—right?
“Nick, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like? We’re dancing,” he says, pushing his fingers into mine.
I scan the room. Silk and satin flare, flowing around us in a sea of elegant turns and complicated steps. Everyone seems so good at it, levitating like it’s effortless.
“Nope. Not part of the deal. I don’t dance. Not like this.” The old-world jazz drifting through the air doesn’t have an easy beat, either.
“You dance some other way?”
I flick my eyes to both sides, then whisper, “I can breakdance like nobody’s business.”
I don’t know why I’m whispering. I’m a little proud of my talent.
“I’ve got to see that someday,” he says, grinning and hooking an arm around my waist, pulling me to him without letting go of my hand clasped in his. “For now, we’ll waltz.”
My eyes go wide.
I’m sure I’m about to wind up a crooked pile of limbs on the floor.
“I don’t—” I start, but the surprisingly rough hand squeezing mine cuts me off.
“Tonight, you just relax and follow me.”
God, this night. It’s too perfect, too unreal, and yet still very wrong.
This isn’t me.
Somehow, I’m in the arms of Chicago’s hottest billionaire bad boy. Only, he’s no bad boy, no scandalicious ticket to tabloid-worthy misadventures.
He’s morphed into Prince Charming. He’s too well-behaved.
I’m scared.
“Hey, Nick?” I whisper.
“Yeah?” His warm minty scent tickles my nostrils, a rich cologne tinged with a hint of his sweat and heady testosterone.
“What’s really going on?”
He looks down at me, his head tilted. “What do you mean? Last I checked, you lied about how much you suck at dancing, Reese. Everybody’s watching us and they love it.”
Not what I’m getting at.
I’m about to ask what I’m really here for tonight and why, because it’s obvious to me there’s more going on here.
This doesn’t add up, and it’s not my paranoia speaking.
Yes, I’m playing a part—his fake date.
I’m here, spinning in this beautiful ballroom, hanging on his arm. I’m not even freaking out as we fade into each other, as he enthralls me a little more with every breath, or when people start aiming their phones at us for pictures.
But this isn’t what we’re here for. I’m guessing everyone in this room has an opinion of Nick Brandt, one way or another. We’re not here to impress them.
Who, then? What? Why?
Before I can ask, the lights go lower. The dancing turns infectious, and we’re surrounded by gently twisting bodies, happy couples glued to each other’s eyes and following his lead. Our lead.
A few of those couples wear their desire, their love, full of longing looks and knowing glances and wandering hands.
Oh, God.
Maybe it’s the atmosphere or maybe it’s his smell, but before I know what I’m doing, I’ve leaned my head on his chest. And then I’m just lost in the moment, his willing captive, too overwhelmed for words when his thick hand caresses my face.
His fingers dip under my chin, urging me up to a beautiful doom.
It’s in those eyes. They glow like soft green stars, intense and urgent, asking a silent question—or is it a demand?
What will you do, Miss Halle? I hear him saying in my head. What will you do if I take that mouth right here? Right now?
My toes scrunch up in my shoes. Our movement slows, our eyes lock, our breaths turn heavy.
And when his gorgeous face sweeps down, so ready to devour me, I don’t even have a prayer.
Our lips collide like they’re opening a portal to another world, hot and wet and wild.
He tastes as good as he looks.
He deepens his kiss, drinking me in with a muffled groan.
He swipes his tongue in my mouth, chasing me, swinging between a litany of teases and filthy, claiming strokes.
The nip of teeth against my bottom lip makes me squeak—but holy flipping bossman, I don’t care.
All the tension that’s been choking us for months—all the magnetism since the day he truly met me as a woman at that office pizza party—boils up my throat and into my fingers.
I’m clinging to him, moaning, soaked and wanting and too stunned for words. He gives back a guttural noise that’s too much like the sound I imagine he’d make inside me.
Insanity, it’s nice to meet you—and that’s a big fat problem.
I can’t fathom what happens next. I don’t want to. I just know one thing.
If this is my first and only chance to kiss Nicholas Brandt, I will make it count. I press my lips tighter to his, pulling another hot groan from him as his nip becomes a bite.
Ten dumbstruck seconds must go by before we tear ourselves away for air.
“Nick...” I whisper.
But before I can force out anything else—let alone my concerns—wet gold explodes in his face, barely missing mine. Huh?
Cold beads dribble down my bare arms as he wheels me around, the entire universe grinding to a stop.
Holy crap.
I step back.
There’s a faint tingling sound followed by shrill glass crashing against the marble floor, fierce and deliberate. My eyes pinch shut as I jump at the noise.
The room goes funeral silent.
The live band drones on, but you could hear a mouse skittering across the floor.
I’m not sure I want to know what that mystery liquid is, but it smells...boozy?
“Nick? Are you okay?” I force out, opening my eyes.
“I’m fine.” His voice is tight, clipped.
A series of bright flashes stun my eyes. A murmur rolls through the crowd. I stumble back, blinking.
Once I’ve opened my eyes again and readjusted to the light, I realize we’re in a circle.
Dead center.
Nobody’s dancing now. The room has stopped. Lifeless.
They’ve formed a peanut gallery around us, and I’m part of the show.
Correction: make that total shit show.
One look at the blonde in her skintight red dress, perched between Nick and me like she’ll claw both our throats out, tells me that.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she croons, shoving a flat hand against my shoulder and rocking me back with the grace of an angry rhino. “But do you mind giving us some space?”
When you’re an orphan, you know what it’s like to be pushed.
A few times, it was the parents throwing us around. Sometimes it was other foster kids. Usually, it was both.
I’ve never had it easy and I’m used to defending myself. Even if I’m in a room full of stunned rich people, taking abuse isn’t what I do.
My hand closes around the petite, bright-red fingers hovering above my shoulder. I’m about to power slam this bitch to the floor when I remember where I am at the very last second.
I let go, reluctantly, with a parting scratch of my nails on her wrist.
“Of course,” I snap. “Have at it.”
“Reese, no. You don’t need to...” Nick trails off, lost for words, his face set like an angry god.
I’m so flipping lost.
I meet his gaze, then trace my eyes back to the tall, beautiful blond warrior-girl. What happens takes a fraction of a second.
There’s a resounding smack like lightning snapping off a branch.
She slaps Nick so hard his face turns.
Half of his face comes back scarlet-red when he twists his neck.
“Shit, that hurt...” Blond Death moves her hand away, shaking it out.
“What the hell?” I whisper to myself, though I already have a terrible inkling what this is all about.
Nick Brandt is no angel.
I’m sure there’s a broken heart or ten behind that hellfire blow—and it’s a story I’m not sure I want to know—especially not after he just kissed my soul from my body.
She ignores me as I stagger back, giving them more space, but I hover in earshot.
“Did you bring that little bimbo here to humiliate me, Nicholas?” she hisses.
“I didn’t know anything could ever humiliate you, Carmen,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants, aloof and ice-cold.
I’ve never seen him this pissed off, this ready to dismember someone.
I get it. I don’t belong here—certainly not in the middle of this dog fight—but it’s a little hard to ignore the bimbo jab.
Before I can step in and defend myself, Nick stabs a finger at her.
“Knock it off. She’s no skank and we broke up a long time ago. People move on. Why can’t you? The only thing humiliating tonight is how you’re acting,” he snarls.