by Carter, Ivy
My fingers close around the hanger tucked at the back behind a signed Big Bang Theory T-shirt and my prom dress which has far too much tulle. I pull out a small black dress and hold it up for inspection. The neckline plunges almost to my belly button and it’s too short—way too short. I can’t believe I ever bought it.
I lay it on the bed and scrounge in the back of the closet for shoes, finally producing a pair of strappy stilettos that need a good dusting.
The ping of an incoming text pulls my attention. I slip into lace thong underwear and a black bra, and go back to the kitchen, carefully avoiding Onyx’s judgmental stare. I don’t recognize the number, but the message is clear: A car will be there at 8 p.m. sharp. Be ready.
No room for interpretation.
A quick glance at the clock tells me I have less than an hour to transform from nerdy college grad to soon-to-be successful business woman.
Challenge accepted.
I crank the radio and sashay over to the bathroom and dig around under the bathroom cupboard for my make-up. Most of the containers are still sealed, the brushes and applicators clean and covered. I call up YouTube on my phone and start scrolling through make-up tutorials until I find something that looks easy enough for me to pull off.
Two tries later and my eyes are dark and smoky, an almost perfect blend of silver and grey. I blink at my image. The eyeliner is thick. My eyelashes seem to go on forever. I lean toward the mirror and smooth out a wayward eyebrow hair.
My stomach flutters.
The make-up is too much. It’s overdone. I’m overdone.
But then I think about Duke, the boardroom at Kingston Industries, the kinds of women he’s rumored to date. I’m no model—far from it—but maybe tonight I can pretend to be someone I’m not.
And yes, I know I’m supposed to be keeping this strictly professional and pitching him our MicroTracker…but I can’t help it.
I want to impress him.
I want him to look at me with those dark, penetrating eyes—to perhaps catch him looking at my cleavage, my ass, my legs.
So I have to look my absolute best.
Of course, that means wielding a curling iron and with less than half an hour left on the clock, I’m not convinced I can work any kind of magic with that wand. As it heats up, I head back to the bedroom and slip into my dress. It clings to my body like shrink wrap. The fine hairs at the back of my neck prickle, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m excited, or if it’s the fact that this dress barely covers my chest—
Shit. My chest! I stand in front of the mirror and my shoulders sag. I can’t wear a bra with this dress—not with how far the neckline plunges. To my surprise, and relief, the dress’s thick shoulder straps hold my breasts in place. They look fuller, perkier.
Great!
Heat creeps up the side of my neck. Good grief, I’m suddenly that girl?
I see Onyx’s reflection in the mirror. He lifts his head, yawns, and slumps back on the duvet.
“You can be annoyed all you want, Onyx, but if you ever want to move out of this shit hole, I’ve got to nail this pitch,” I say in a harsh whisper.
God. Now I’m the crazy cat girl, too.
The glowing digits on my alarm clock tell me I have twenty minutes to finish my hair, put on my shoes, and get downstairs. Fifteen, actually, since the elevator can’t be trusted and I am not walking down nine flights of stairs in six-inch stilettos.
Curling my hair takes far less effort than applying the right shade of lipstick, which gives me two extra minutes to find my leather jacket, strap up the shoes, check my look once more in the mirror and throw my cell phone, the MicroTracker, a notebook, my wallet, and breath mints into my fake Louis Vuitton purse.
I let out a deep sigh. Five minutes to eight.
Onyx shoots me one last look to remind me of how pathetic I am as I close my apartment door and step into the hallway. Alex Hartfield, the eccentric old guy down the hall, turns his head when he sees me approach the elevator. Does a full-on double-take.
“Damn, Hailey, you clean up nice.”
I fight the blush of embarrassment and smile as confidently as I can muster, given the circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Hartfield.”
Nervous energy shakes through me. I have three minutes to get downstairs and through the lobby before Duke picks me up. I imagine the look on everyone’s face as the Duke Kingston swoops up to the curb in an expensive Town Car and gets out to open the door. He’ll stare at me in wonder, murmur something about how beautiful I look… Or maybe we’ll be in a limousine. A white stretched limo with champagne and strawberries, soft music playing in the background.
Cool it, Hailey.
It’s obvious my neighbor can’t stop staring at me and I’m suddenly uncomfortable being the center of his attention. “How long have you been waiting for the elevator?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Five minutes?”
I groan. I’ve got less than two to get my ass downstairs.
Tick. Tock.
My pulse speeds up.
I can’t wait. I untie my heels, slip out of them, and dangle them in my right hand, and head for the stairs. The concrete is cool on my skin. By the time I reach the landing I’m sweating and freezing.
I slip on my shoes and take tentative steps toward the front entrance. With one minute to spare, I reach the door and stare out onto the busy street. Chicago’s skyline sparkles in the distance.
I moved to this city five years ago, leaving behind the safety net of parents who doted too much, and friends who think I’ve sorely underestimated the charm of Mystic, Connecticut. Going home is nice, but I’ll take towering skyscrapers and Navy Pier over quaint seaside village any day.
At the end of my street, a dark limousine weaves through traffic and pulls up alongside the curb. My stomach flips end over end as a driver gets out, circles the car, and opens the door for me. I exhale deeply. Show time.
I paint on my biggest smile, and thank the man as he takes my hand to help me into the car. My thighs stick to the taupe leather seats. Champagne cools in the center console, but there’s only one crystal flute.
The driver leans in and smiles. “Mr. Kingston invites you to enjoy a glass of champagne. We’ll be arriving at the restaurant in about twenty minutes. Enjoy the ride.”
“Thanks,” I say, but my voice is flat, monotone. Maybe it’s silly, but I assumed Duke would be in the car. That we’d go to dinner together.
His absence is another stark reminder that this isn’t a date.
Chapter 5
ALINEA is not only the most expensive restaurant in Chicago, it’s one of the most famous in North America, and as the limo pulls up to the building, my breath hitches.
This place has been on my foodie bucket list since I moved to the city, but with its recent multi-million-dollar renovation and world-famous menu, I thought I’d never have the chance to come here. One reviewer claims he spent more than two hundred bucks per plate. That’s almost a third of my rent!
The chauffer opens my door and I step out onto the sidewalk like some kind of movie starlet. It’s surreal how the exterior lights turn the brick sidewalk yellow—like they’re leading me straight to Oz.
I resist the urge to kick up my heel.
“Just ask the hostess for Mr. Kingston’s table,” the driver says. “Enjoy your evening.”
I nod, unable to speak. He winks at me, like he can read my mind, but it doesn’t do anything for my nerves.
My phone pings.
I glance at my texts. There are two—one from Jake, the other from Forrest. For a brief second, I consider sending them a picture of the building—they’ll never believe I’m about to dine at ALINEA—but they’re already jealous that they weren’t invited. I flick off the phone instead, vowing to text the second anything significant happens, and open the door.
The scent of herbs and spices and things I can’t name greets me as I enter, making my mouth instantly water.
Music and the white
noise of animated chatter floats through the simple, clean lobby that’s accented by cherry wood floors and cream-colored furniture. A blonde hostess smiles at me. “Do you have a reservation?”
My voice turns soapy. “I’m here for Duke.” My face goes so hot I’m sure it’s on fire. “Shit…um…I mean, I’m meeting Duke Kingston.”
The words don’t sound right coming out of my mouth. Like I’m some kind of imposter. A wanna-be in a too-tight, too-sexy dress made for a body that isn’t mine. But if the hostess is perplexed about my connection to Duke, she pulls off an award-winning performance. She probably sees this kind of thing all the time.
“Of course,” she says. “Right this way.”
I follow her through a labyrinth of long tables where people gather in awe of foods that sizzle, smoke, and smell like sin. My mouth waters. I’m so caught up in the sights and sounds and atmosphere that I don’t realize until it’s too late that the hostess has stopped at a private table tucked in the far corner of the room.
And then I’m in front of his table—he’s sitting there, looking elegant and strong and powerful and for a moment I feel so small before him.
Duke lifts his gaze and I’m dumbstruck.
Speechless.
His eyes, those dark, glorious eyes, penetrate my soul. I am suddenly naked and on display. I should feel cold, nervous.
But then I am somehow empowered instead, basking in his undivided attention.
He lifts his wine glass, as if in salute, and raises it to his lips.
My throat goes dry.
No matter how many times I tell myself this isn’t a date, that a man like Duke could never be interested in a girl like me, I can’t seem to quash the underlying hope that maybe this dinner is more than a business meeting.
No matter how wrong it might be for me to hope for it.
“Please,” Duke says, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. His voice is velvet, like warm brandy. “I took the liberty of ordering.”
I nod and sit, my entire body trembling.
As he pours wine, I try to find my voice. “Thank you,” I whisper. Clearing my throat, I add, “This restaurant is lovely.”
“It’s the best.”
I’m out of my element here and I suddenly have no idea how I’m going to pull off this pitch. Waiters pass with fancy dishes that plume with smoke and scents that churn inside my stomach. I breathe deep.
Soft candlelight flickers on Duke’s rugged face. He’s trimmed his beard and changed his suit—this one a deep navy that complements his burgundy tie. A pale blue shirt molds to his chest. I’m desperate to slip my hands underneath it and run my fingertips along his muscles. Jesus. I need a drink.
I reach for my wine glass and hold it up to my nose. Sniff. The scent of peach cuts the sharp tang of citrus. I swirl the liquid in my glass like I’ve watched people do on a million cooking shows, and then take a sip. Duke observes every motion, the corner of his mouth quirked with amusement.
I set the wine on the table and lick my lips. “I appreciate you giving us another chance to talk to you about the MicroTracker.”
“How charming is Mystic, really?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Duke unfolds a napkin and places it on his lap. And damn if my mind doesn’t go straight to thinking about what’s under that linen. He gives me one of those heart-stopping smiles. “That’s where you’re from, correct?”
It makes sense that a man like Duke would have done his research. Still, I’m off-kilter. “Yes, but I’ve always had Big City dreams.” I need to steer the conversation back to the product fast or I’ll lose my nerve. “I moved here straight from high school. I graduated with honors and a scholarship to Chicago College.”
I leave out the drama that followed—a stream of bad apartments and bad choices.
“Eager to escape your parents’ control.”
He’s more on the nose than I’m willing to admit. I lift my glass and mock toast. “Ambitious, perhaps. I’m not one for being tied down.”
“Now that’s a shame.”
His response makes me choke a little on my wine. I clear my throat and root around in my handbag, finally withdrawing the small container that holds the MicroTracker. Duke barely gives it a glance. I talk anyway. “This device…”
“How do your parents feel about you being in Chicago?”
I exhale hard. “Dad’s…well, he’s dad. Protective, worried.”
Chicago’s long history of crime often comes up in conversation. I’ve managed to stave off a full-blown parental panic attack by never inviting them to see my apartment. Mom would be mortified to know her monthly care packages of homemade goods and small packets of money Dad knows nothing about go toward bills, not furniture. My cardboard box coffee table might send her over the edge.
Duke’s mouth caresses the edge of the wine glass. He sips, and I’m drawn to the way the muscles in his throat flex and relax as he swallows. He parts his lips and the merest glimpse of his tongue sends a shiver along my body.
He gazes at me steadily. “Chicago’s south side can be dangerous. Especially for a naïve young…”
I blink away the image of his mouth hovering over my flesh. My nipples harden, visible through my thin dress. I sigh and try to pull myself together. “My area isn’t quite South Side. It’s a little…vintage. But I can handle myself.”
“Are you certain?”
My gut clenches. “Of course.”
His gaze points to my chest. “Even in a dress that invites…attention?”
Anger flares at my temples. I resist the urge to cross my arms and cover my exposed cleavage. I should have worn something more conservative, less showy. An outfit that didn’t announce my tits like they’re debutantes at a coming out party. Focus.
“The MicroTracker attaches to flesh,” I say.
His eyes lift to meet mine, then lower to stare at my chest. “I can appreciate how some things might be worthy of tracking…”
My jaw drops. The corners of Duke’s eyes crinkle with amusement. Damn him, he’s enjoying getting under my skin. I hate that I’ve allowed it and somehow love that he has.
Our server brings two iced tumblers artfully filled with crab and something that looks like caviar. I breathe in an earthy aroma of herbs.
“Truffles,” Duke says, pointing with his appetizer fork. “They pair well with the seafood and caviar.”
“I’ve never tasted caviar before.”
He seems pleased. “It can be an acquired taste.”
I ease some of the seafood mixture onto my fork, careful to steady my trembling hands. My skin burns under the heat of his stare. A chunk of the caviar rolls off the fork and lands on my napkin. I try to dispose of it before Duke notices. Too late. He’s always watching.
“The wait staff will take care of that,” he says dryly, almost in disapproval.
I shrug. “We could put the tracker on it—see where that little fish egg ends up.”
Annoyance pinches his features tight. Every time I bring up the Microtracker, Duke pulls back. Like talking about the product—or anything business-related—is the last thing on his mind.
He sets down his fork and pushes the appetizer aside. “What did you think of the caviar?”
My nose involuntarily scrunches up. “I’m afraid my palette isn’t very sophisticated.”
Dad’s more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, and when Mom does venture outside of his comfort box, she loads up on creams and crusts to make the “healthy” go down easier—beer battered fish, clam chowder, and deep-fried escargot are staples at the Locke home. That and a hearty beer.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” Duke says.
The unspoken promise sends a thrill up my spine. I’m mid-crafting an appropriate response when our second course arrives. Some kind of salad served in an irregular-shaped pewter dish. Pieces of arugula have been twisted to form rose buds. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I tamp back the urge to
take out my cell and snap a picture—no one will ever believe me. From inside my purse, I hear my text messages vibrate. Forrest and Jake, for sure. Guilt threads under my skin.
I sit taller, aware the motion has thrust my chest further into the spotlight. Instead of shrinking under his gaze, I embrace it. Try to use his fascination with my breasts to my advantage. If you’ve got it…
My palm closes around the MicroTracker and I slide it across the table toward Duke. His fingers stay wrapped around the stem of his wine glass, unflinching even when our skin touches. A bolt of electricity hits me right in the gut. Jesus.
I shift, lean forward, give Duke the full scope of my cleavage. “Why don’t you have another look?”
“Gladly,” he says.
My breath hitches. This is the exact opposite of professional, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that if I want Duke’s attention, my partners’ advice might not be far off the mark.
A little harmless flirtation can’t hurt.
But then again, I know this is anything but harmless. I feel like I’m playing with fire. And worst of all, I think I might actually want to get burned…
I tap my chipped fingernail on the table to draw Duke’s gaze back to the MicroTracker.
“I don’t need another look at that,” he says. “My attention is on…other things.”
My teeth slowly scrape along my lower lip. I don’t need a mirror to know that desire is written all over my face.
“I have an idea for marketing,” I say, voice hoarse. I’m grasping at straws here, and he knows it. “If you could consider—”
Duke holds his finger up against his lips. “Not now.”
My skin hums with the need to be touched. My nerves are stretched tight like an elastic band. Any further and I really might snap and just beg him to take me and have his way with me.
Silence descends and neither of us speaks.