Dirty Little Desires (Dirty Little Series Book 3)

by Cassie Cross

  What he’s saying makes a lot of sense and makes some of the nerves melt a way a little. Maybe the best way of approaching this isn’t with a rehearsed speech full of admiration, but an honest talk about what I’m passionate about and what I admire about her success in the industry I want to be a part of.

  I smile at Oliver. “Thanks.”

  “Did it help at all?”

  “Yeah,” I reply with a nod. “You’ve made me feel confident about tonight in a way I haven’t quite been able to work myself up to yet.”

  Oliver’s whole face brightens. “Good. I had some champagne sent up for later just in case.”

  “You gonna share it with me?”

  “Always. I wouldn’t miss out on being there when you make your dreams come true.”

  The soft, intent look in his eyes sends a rush of heat skittering up my spine. He does this sometimes, looks at me in a way that’s all warm and adoring, a way that makes me think…maybe.

  But nothing ever changes, and it’s probably better if I get up before I let my thoughts run away from me.

  “I should probably get going so I’m not rushing later. Thanks for the advice.” I pat Oliver’s shoulder as I walk to my room.

  “Felicity?” Oliver asks.

  I turn toward him from the doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Do you want to do something together tomorrow? After tonight I figure we could probably use a day relaxing, having some fun.”

  Even if I wanted to, I could never say no to him.

  “Yeah,” I reply with a grin. “I’d really like that.”

  The driver Oliver calls for me—an affable man named John—takes me to the Portland Saturday market and gives me a number to reach him when I’m ready to go back to the hotel. He sends me off with a warm smile and a couple of recommendations for his favorite stalls.

  I set an alarm on my phone, because this is definitely the kind of place that I could get lost in all day long. I wander through the stalls, sampling some locally made treats, admire some of the hand made crafts, and buy a few gifts for my friends. Handcrafted earrings for Marisa and Mia, a small bucket of bath bombs for Corinne—who probably needs them as much as I did last night—a new wallet for Ben, a pair of barbecue tongs for Caleb, and a wooden puzzle for Oliver to fiddle with when he’s on the phone.

  I grab a couple of snacks from the vendors as I wander, getting a feel for Portland. Everyone is friendly, letting me touch their fabrics, talking to me about the process of making their goods. I stay a little longer than I should, and meet John at a busy intersection a good half hour after I meant to leave.

  When I return to the hotel, I rush right into the spa for the massage appointment I’d made before I left New York. A woman named Ingrid with hands of magic works out all the kinks and knots I couldn’t get rid of in the bath yesterday. When she’s finished with me, I feel like a boneless blob of relaxation. She passes me off to Astrid, who gives me a mani and pedi.

  When I walk out a few hours later, I feel ready to conquer the world.

  On my way back to the room to take a shower and start getting ready, I pass by the ballroom. It’s a flurry of activity setting up for the evening, and overseeing it all is Oliver.

  Without really thinking about it, I’m drawn into the room, closer to him. I can’t help myself. It only takes a few seconds for him to notice that I’m there, and he smiles when he sees me.

  “Hey,” he says, looking down at my bags from the market. “Looks like you did minimal damage.”

  “And almost all this stuff is for other people. Including this, for you.” I hand him the brown bag the puzzle came with.

  Oliver reaches in and pulls it out, an almost befuddled look on his handsome face. “No offense, but what is this?”

  I can’t help but laugh. I take the puzzle, a spherical thing held together by shaped pieces of wood, and pull out a piece. “I thought you could put this on your desk at work. It would give you something to do with your hands when you’re on calls, because I know you hate talking on the phone. It’s a change of pace from doodling, and…maybe it’s silly, but I thought—”

  “It’s not silly.” Now that he knows what it is and why he has it, he looks at it with a sentimental longing, like it’s more than just a puzzle. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  “I thought you might.”

  He looks like he’s about to say something else when someone calls his name.

  It’s time for me to get out of his hair anyway; I have a whole routine to get to.

  “I’ll head upstairs,” I tell him. “Let you get back to work.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  “Wow. All proper like?”

  Oliver smiles. “I figured I’d stay out of your hair while you’re getting ready.”

  I laugh. “Okay, seven sounds good.”

  “See you then, Felicity.”

  Chapter Nine

  After hours of primping and polishing, doing everything I possibly can to relax and kill the nerves that have been plaguing me all day, I stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door and admire my handiwork.

  I’m wearing a purple asymmetrical dress with spaghetti straps, a fitted bodice, and a full, flowing skirt. It toes the line between effortlessly comfortable and black-tie appropriate, and is one of my favorite things I’ve ever made. I’ve gotten into the habit of wearing my hair in a bun a lot lately, so for a change of pace I’ve somehow managed to settle my wild curls down into pretty waves that fall down my back.

  I went light on the accessories: no necklace, rose gold chandelier earrings, and a rose gold v-link bangle. Since I went a little heavy on the eye makeup—and managed an excellent wing despite my shaking hands—I settled on a glossy light pink lip.

  All in all this look is even better than I hoped it would be, and if I’m able to make other women feel as beautiful and confident as I do in my dresses, then maybe I do have a shot at some staying power in this industry.

  A couple minutes before seven I do a last once over, doing my best to straighten out any fly away hairs, check for smudges in my makeup, etc. When everything is satisfactory, I open the door and see Oliver sitting on the couch. I expected him to be lounging leisurely somewhere, looking at ease like he always does. Instead he has his elbows planted on his knees and his fingers tented as he stares intently at the coffee table.

  He belatedly registers that I’ve walked into the room and when he does, he stands up, turns in my direction, and just…stares for a few seconds.

  It could mean anything, really. That I started him out of very deep thoughts, that he thought I’d be wearing something different…but I’m choosing to take this as a compliment.

  Finally, he takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Felicity,” he breathes. “Wow. Just…wow.”

  Oliver Warren standing speechless in front of a woman? Yeah, I was right. Total compliment. The whole thing boosts my ego a notch.

  I take a few steps toward him because he’s looking pretty great, too. His tux is classic black and fitted just right, his bow tie tied perfectly. His stubble is perfectly groomed, and his hair is artfully disheveled like it always is.

  “You are…stunning.” Oliver reaches out and glides his fingertips along my upper arm, almost like he wants to make sure I’m really here. Ego boosted another notch. His touch makes goosebumps bloom across my skin. “Did you make this?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I reply, my voice a little uneven. “I did.”

  “Wow.”

  I let out a little giggle that would be embarrassing under normal circumstances, but I can’t bring myself to be embarrassed here. I like the compliment. I like Oliver thinking I’m wow.

  “You look wow,” I tell him, reaching up and running my fingers along his lapel. I brush some imaginary lint off his jacket, then straighten it a little. Anything for me to have a reason to keep my hands on his chest, I guess.

  “Thank you,” he replies with a smile. “All I had to do wa
s put on a tux.”

  “And wait for me.”

  “Worth it,” he replies with a wink like a total flirt, making my knees weak. “You ready?”

  I let out a long breath. “Watch me have spent all this time on getting ready for this thing and she won’t even show up.”

  “She showed up,” Oliver tells me. “I checked.”

  “Oh,” I breathe. I reach up to fiddle with my hair, then think twice because I spent so much time getting it to behave. Then my shaking hands are just suspended in front of me without my permission.

  Oliver notices I’m trembling. It’s a little from nerves, a little from proximity. He places his hands over mine to still me.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he tells me. “Just be yourself, Felicity. That’s the best you can do. The rest isn’t up to you.”

  I nod. That makes sense, sure. It’s nice to remember that once I do my part, everything else is out of my hands.

  “Be myself. Okay.”

  “Okay,” Oliver replies, giving my hands a light squeeze. “Ready?” He offers me the crook of his arm and I slide my hand in, holding onto his bicep like a lifeline.

  “Let’s go.”

  The difference between my expectations for this benefit and the reality could not be further apart. I figured that Oliver and I would spend a good chunk of the evening fending off people asking about our relationship status, considering Oliver is a notorious bachelor. But no, no one’s asked about or commented on the two of us so far. My night has mostly been full of well-meaning people chit-chatting with me about my brother’s software business, slipping me their business cards for me to pass along to him.

  A few people have heard of my business and have asked about how it’s going, but most of them ask about Marisa, wanting some kind of gossip about her state of mind now that her parents are both in jail. I am politely evasive, and Oliver does a good job of effortlessly redirecting the conversation.

  It’s not a terrible evening by a long shot, throughout my years in society I’ve definitely endured worse. Oliver jumps in when he can, but he has people to schmooze here too, so I’m on my own a lot. I jump from circle to circle making small talk; unfortunately I haven’t found myself in the same group with Poppy Argyle yet.

  I keep my eye out though, like some kind of opportunistic social stalker. She was seated at the same table Oliver and I were at dinner, but she was chatting away with the person next to her and I didn’t want to interrupt to pitch myself to her, no matter how many times Oliver gently nudged me to do just that.

  The closest I get to actually having a conversation with her is when I nearly run into her walking out of the bathroom. I practically open the door directly into her face, narrowly missing her because she had the presence of mind to dodge out of the way. I apologize and she’s rightfully gives me a put-out side-eye. I duck into the nearest stall and sit there, red-faced, dying of complete mortification, for about five minutes.

  Get yourself together, Williams.

  When I’m finally ready to re-enter society, I end up chatting with Janine, the woman who’s throwing this party to raise money for the children’s center. Her drive for the project is infectious and it’s obvious she cares about it a lot. I make an additional pledge to the center, because I want to help her reach her goal in any way I can. I also talk to her about setting up an interview for a feature about her on our site. She’s agreeable, gives me the contact information for her PR person, and I give her my best wishes for a successful fundraiser.

  My encounter with Janine reminds me of what Oliver said to me about letting my enthusiasm and dedication speak for themselves, and that calms my nerves a little.

  I stop to take a break at our table, which is situated right on the edge of the dance floor. There’s a band playing a lively number, and I’m in the middle of taking a sip of water when a very nice gentleman I spoke to at dinner—his name is Dan—approaches me and asks if I’d like to dance.

  If I was going to dance with anyone here, I’d rather it be Oliver. But he doesn’t really like dancing, and he’s nowhere to be found. Besides, I know that Dan has worked on some financing deals with Oliver, and I don’t want to offend the guy.

  The music transitions to a slow dance, and surprisingly Dan’s not a terrible dancer. He’s nice, and he keeps his hand in a respectable place on my waist. We’re making small talk about interest rates when—

  “May I cut in?”

  I can’t help but smile at Oliver, all tall and imposing. Dan quickly steps out of the way, not daring to put up a fight. Oliver takes his place, gently threading his fingers between mine and sliding his hand around my waist. It comes to rest much, much lower than Dan’s did, and I can’t say I mind.

  “Having fun?” Oliver’s eyes are warm and soft when he looks at me, the two of us swaying to the music.

  “Yes,” I reply honestly. “You?”

  “Not really. I hate these things. I can’t wait to get upstairs and get out of this tux.”

  I laugh. “So you decided to come over here and butt in?”

  “I didn’t want you to have to dance with a novice like Dan.”

  I feel playfully offended on Dan’s behalf. “Dan was a good dancer. And he kept his hands in respectable places.”

  A fire flashes in Oliver’s eyes as his grip tightens and he pulls me closer. It kicks my heartbeat up a couple notches, makes heat bloom in my cheeks.

  “Okay. Truthfully, I didn’t like seeing you dancing with Dan.”

  I know I should be annoyed by the streak of possessiveness, but I’m not. I actually kind of like it.

  “Well then, you should’ve asked me first.” My voice wavers a little, because I’m totally thrown off kilter by what’s going on here.

  “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “You’re assuming there’s going to be an again?” I tease. If it were up to me, we’d have a future full of agains.

  “Oh, there will be.”

  He’s so sure of himself, and it’s ridiculously attractive. “But you hate dancing.”

  “I don’t hate it when I’m dancing with you,” Oliver says with a wink.

  He pulls me closer and I’m comfortable in his arms, content to rest my head on his chest, breathe him in and forget about the world around us. His fingertips draw a soft pattern along my spine, right where my skin is exposed. This feels different, feels like something, when I’ve spent so long convincing myself that there’s nothing more than friendship between us.

  This feels anything but friendly, and I can’t get enough. I move my hand so I can play with the hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck and I swear I hear him humming, can feel the rumble of it in his chest against my cheek.

  Wow.

  Too soon the music revs into an upbeat number and I reluctantly pull away. Oliver just stares at me with this unreadable look in his eyes, one that I can’t make heads or tails of. Did I just mess everything up? Was the neck thing too much?

  Before I can overthink it, he leans in close. “You better make your move before Poppy leaves,” he says. He takes a strand of my curls and twists it around his finger, looking at it intently. “Stop talking yourself out of doing it.”

  Oliver’s eyes snap to mine, like he just pulled himself out of a daze. He kisses my cheek, lingering for a second.

  “Oliver,” I whisper, not really sure what’s going on here.

  “Good luck,” he says, then walks off the dance floor and disappears into the crowd.

  My heart is beating a quadrillion times faster than is probably normal, and I feel a little overheated. Close proximity to Oliver does that to me on a regular basis, but this is the first time I’ve ever thought about the possibility of the two of us being in the same ballpark as far as feelings for each other are concerned.

  Maybe he’s had a little too much to drink? He didn’t seem drunk, but…

  I’m overheated and there are too many people in this room. I rush outside to take a break on the patio to get some fresh
air. I take a few deep breaths after the door closes behind me, gathering my thoughts. I can’t freak out about Oliver now when I’m already freaking out about talking to Poppy.

  I need to distract myself.

  There’s only one other woman out here, elbows resting against the railing as she looks up at the night sky.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” I say, closing my eyes as the wind ruffles my hair. It’s a little cloudy tonight, but the moon brightens the view of the city off in the distance.

  “Yes, it is.” she replies quickly, like I’ve startled her. She blows out a cloud of smoke, then puts out her cigarette. She seems a little self-conscious about it, like it’s a nervous habit more than an addiction. “Your dress is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” I slide the palm across my stomach as I look down, smoothing out any wrinkles. I look at her dress It’s fire-engine red with a full skirt and absolutely flawless embroidery on the bodice and sleeves. “Yours is stunning. That embroidery is top notch.” I barely stop myself from reaching out to touch it. I’m a sucker for good craftsmanship.

  “I’m a huge fan of your work, Felicity,” the woman replies. “I love your site. It keeps me busy when I need a break during a call, or when I’m avoiding work in the car on my way to the office.”

  I can’t help but laugh. If anything, Marisa and I want the site to be fun, and giving someone something lighthearted to scroll through to relieve stress fits the bill.

  “Thank you. We’re more than happy to help you pass the time. Sitting in a cab on my way to my studio is usually when I get my best goofing off done,” I tell her with a smile.