by Zoe Chant
“I recommend not going all yowling-cat-man on her, either,” he said calmly, and Grant realized that his fangs and teeth weren’t just fighting to form: they had taken shape.
He stretched his jaw, willing his teeth to shrink back down to human size, and flexed his hands until the curved claws were replaced by short, smooth human fingernails.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stunned. “That’s never happened before. I usually have more control.”
“I hope you get my point, Grant,” Lance said, all seriousness now. He leaned forward, fixing Grant with his pale stare. “I understand the reasoning behind your decision—some of it, at least. You don’t want to pressure her; that’s admirable. But you have to be careful not to build your relationship on a lie.”
Grant collapsed back onto the sofa, staring at his hands. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” he said bitterly.
“Don’t sound so put out. At least you’re not cooling your heels in a cabin in the woods, or wherever it is that Mathis Delacourt’s hauled himself off to after his last failed fling.”
Grant looked up. “That’s where he is?”
“Who knows? From what Frankie was saying last night, even she doesn’t know where he is.” Lance shrugged, and Grant remembered that the two men had never really gotten along. “Gone to lick his wounds somewhere is my guess. Anyway. Back to the topic at hand.”
“Courting Irina. As a human.” Grant sat back, staring at the ceiling.
“You can’t do worse than Mathis.”
Grant glared at Lance, who was quietly chucking to himself.
Lance grinned and adjusted his glasses. “Show her a good time. Show her you’re trustworthy, and that you’ll look after her. Make her feel special. Does she like flowers? Chocolates? Jewelry?”
Gifts. Yes, Grant’s panther purred. He remembered how happy Irina had looked, wrapped in his bed that morning, her skin caressed by Egyptian cotton. If he couldn’t keep her in his bed all week, he could at least give her other comforts. Something to remember him by, when she couldn’t be with him. Something to caress her skin when he wasn’t there…
11
IRINA
“You’re not wearing that again.”
Irina sighed and rolled her eyes. She’d raced home at the end of her shift and spent the last hour bouncing off the walls of the tiny apartment in a panic, showering, shaving, moisturizing, straightening her hair…
She hadn’t seen Grant in a week, and there wasn’t a minute of that time where he hadn’t been on her mind. His eyes. His smile. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he held her.
Those memories had done a lot to make her shifts more bearable. Every time she worried about getting an order wrong, or felt her shoulders ache as she hauled another pile of plates out back, she remembered Grant’s smile, and somehow she didn’t find it as difficult anymore. She had even talked back to the manager at that awful fish place when the guy tried to rip off her tips. And he’d backed down!
She felt like a new woman. And she liked it.
Half an hour, and she would see him again. Even just the thought of it made her shiver with anticipation—and fear.
What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble?
In short, she was not in the mood for Clare’s judgmental attitude about her wardrobe.
Their front-door buzzer had gone off a few minutes earlier. Clare had rushed off to deal with whatever the message was, and Irina had secretly hoped this meant she would have time to get dressed without any commentary. So much for that.
Clare was back, poking her head around Irina’s bedroom door, and judging her outfit. Dammit.
“Give it a rest, Clare.” Irina dropped the black knit dress back on her bed and glared at her friend. “It’s the only nice dress I’ve got. I can’t rock up to whatever fancy restaurant he’s taking me to in jeans and a sweatshirt.” Or the mono-boob monstrosity, she added silently.
Still, the fact that she was stuck wearing the same dress she had worn on their last date stung more than she had expected. Irina had meant to find the time to go shopping and pick up a cheap outfit during the week, but her schedule—and bank account—hadn’t played along. Even those extra tips had been immediately gobbled up by her share of the utilities bill.
She picked up the black knit dress and sighed.
“This will have to do. If I wear one of your pashminas with it, maybe he won’t notice it’s the same one. And if he does… well, it’s got, you know, good memories attached to it.”
Her cheeks burned as those memories flooded her mind. Not just the night itself, and that amazing breakfast with Grant sitting beside her in nothing but his underwear, either. She still got a thrill remembering heading home the morning after, wearing the same dress Grant had torn off her the night before, with his masculine scent and the memory of his touch lingering on her body.
She lifted the dress to her face and inhaled. She had washed it, of course, so it smelled like lavender. There wasn’t a hint of Grant’s spicy, intoxicating musk left.
Maybe we can change that tonight, she thought, and hid her grin in the fabric.
“Uh-huh,” came Clare’s voice from the door. “Sorry, do you and the dress want some privacy? Should I go?”
Without waiting for an answer, Clare swanned through the door. Irina noticed she was holding something big behind her back. As big as the grin spreading across her face.
“What have you got there?” Irina narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Who was that at the door? I’m not expecting Grant for another half-hour.
When Clare pulled out a garment box from behind her back, Irina’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Clare, you shouldn’t have!”
“I didn’t,” Clare reassured her, her eyes sparkling. “That was Harvey from downstairs at the door just now. He said the courier must have left this behind his desk earlier, because it didn’t fit in our mail slot, but he only found it now.”
“A courier left it at his desk?” Irina stared at the box. She didn’t recognize the designer’s logo embossed on the front, but the box itself oozed luxury. It was cream-colored, with a raised linen texture, and looked completely out of place in Irina’s messy room.
Clare pushed the box under her nose. “Open it!” she commanded, wagging the box back and forth. “Open i-i-i-it. No-o-o-ow.”
“Wow,” Irina breathed as she gently took the box. She felt as if she moved too quickly, it might disappear.
The box was lighter than she thought it would be, but it didn’t explode or vanish or turn into mist. She pushed up the lid until she could feel it was about to come off.
“Three guesses who this is from,” she murmured, glancing up at Clare.
Clare was practically bouncing up and down with anticipation. “Just open it!”
Irina took a deep breath and pushed the lid off. It slid to the floor, unnoticed, as she stared at what was inside.
“Oh, wow,” she gasped.
“Wow is right.”
Nestled on a cloudy cushion of tissue paper was a dress. Irina fumbled the box onto her bed and just barely hesitated before lifting the garment out. “Oh, this is—this is too much.”
The dress was a rich forest green color, made of heavy, luxurious silk that seemed to glow in her hands. The fabric was cool to the touch, and even hanging from Clare’s hands, it draped beautifully. She couldn’t imagine what it would look like on.
Probably amazing. If it fits.
“I can’t wear this,” she babbled. “It’s way too fancy. I…”
Even as she said it, Irina was looking for the zipper. There wasn’t one. Instead, the whole dress fell open down the front, secured only by a few mother-of-pearl buttons and a wrap-around sash. She blushed as she thought of how easily the buttons and sash could fall away.
Her fingers itched to try the dress on, but her stomach twisted. Friday night had been a glorious, sexy adventure, and she was looking forward to dinner tonight, but this?
/> I’m not the sort of girl who gets sent dresses like this. She bit her lip before the words came out.
What is your problem? Why is this dress making you feel like your stomach is about to explode with butterflies?
It wasn’t as though she regretted Friday night. She’d never had a one-night stand before, but everything had felt—well, so right. Grant was sexy and fun, and it had been far too long since Irina had let herself really cut loose and enjoy life.
But this… flowers would have been one thing. Chocolates. Thoughtful, but impersonal.
A dress was so much more personal. Grant had picked this out, chosen it with her in mind—chosen it with her body in mind. He’d probably imagined her wearing it. It was so intimate.
A tremble of anticipation went up Irina’s spine at that thought, and her fingers tightened. She might not think she was the sort of women men sent fancy gifts to, but Grant clearly thought otherwise.
The dress shone in her hands, the silk whispering under her fingers. She couldn’t help but feel as though it was promising so much more than just dinner and sex.
And if it was…
Irina shook herself. Stop it. This is just… for fun, right? An adventure. Grant probably didn’t want you embarrassing him again with your cheap clothing.
“Well, I hope it fits,” was all she said out loud.
“Can’t be worse than the mono-boob monstrosity,” Clare commented. “Do you need a hand with it?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine. Actually—can you grab your makeup bag? I think my face is going to need an upgrade to match this dress.”
Irina waited until Clare had ducked out to the bathroom. She felt strangely self-conscious at the thought of putting on the dress in front of Clare.
She unhooked the tiny buttons one by one. Before she could change her mind, she quickly slipped out of her dressing gown and slipped the shimmering dress around her shoulders.
The fabric was so smooth it was cool to the touch, and the constricting tightness she was dreading as it inevitably turned out to be too small never materialized. The dress slid over her skin like—
Like silk! she thought, giggling with delight.
She kept her eyes closed as the dress settled around her and did up the buttons one by one. It felt amazing, and she didn’t want to break the spell by opening her eyes. Not least because the top button was perilously far down her cleavage. She felt sexy and beautiful. She really didn’t want to ruin the illusion by opening her eyes and seeing her bra spilling out of the neckline.
“Oh, my God, Irina! That is stunning!”
There was a heavy thump that Irina assumed was Clare’s makeup bag landing on her bed, and a moment later she had to open her eyes as her friend grabbed her by the hands and forcibly spun her around.
“Ow—hey! Watch out!” Irina’s eyes flew open and she grabbed hold of Clare for support. Clare’s eyes were gleaming. She grabbed the sash from Irina’s unresisting hands and tied it in place, completing the ensemble.
“I knew it would look great on you. Look in the mirror!”
Reluctantly, Irina turned to face the long mirror on the wall beside her bedroom door. Her eyes widened.
It fit her perfectly. How, she didn’t question. Whatever shop Grant had bought this from, their sales assistants must have some sort of remote dress-fitting magic powers.
Irina spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt of the dress sway around her, feeling it brush against her bare legs. Magic was definitely involved here somehow.
She felt amazing. And she looked good in it. Really good. The neckline was far lower than anything she would normally wear, plunging deep to show her cleavage, but her breasts didn’t bulge out the way she always worried about. The soft silk held close to her waist and hips and fell to skim just below her knees.
Irina imagined Grant at the boutique, running the dress through his hands, choosing something to flatter her curves rather than hide them. She could almost feel his hands on her already.
“Great,” said Clare triumphantly. “Now let’s do something about your make-up.”
Thirty minutes later, Irina was feeling so primped and preened that she barely dared to move in case the whole illusion came tumbling down. Clare’s handiwork was a few steps above her own smoky-eye attempts. Her friend was as fierce with the make-up brush as Irina was with her paintbrush.
Clare had just set down her brushes when Irina’s phone buzzed. As Irina dug through her handbag, Clare raced to the window and peered down into the street below.
“Talk about good timing,” she said, smirking. “I think your ride’s here, if your ride is six-foot-enormous with black hair and roses?”
“Oh, God.” Irina grabbed her phone, dropped it, and stared up at Clare. “Do I look okay?”
Now it was Clare’s turn to roll her eyes. “Shut up and get out there. And let me know if you plan on not coming home tonight this time, okay?”
“All right, Mom.” Irina managed to grab hold of her phone and checked the notifications. One new message.
Grant: I’m outside. Do you want me to come up?
Up here? To mess central? Irina’s fingers flew across the screen. I’ll come down. Two minutes!
The butterflies in Irina’s stomach felt more like wasps as she headed down to the street. She had exchanged a few text messages with Grant since Saturday morning, confirming that she was free Monday night and so on, but that was all.
If he didn’t want to see you again, he wouldn’t be taking you out to dinner, she told herself firmly. He wouldn’t have sent you this dress, for sure.
She stopped with her hand on the front door. No matter how hard she tried, she still couldn’t quite believe that Grant’s interest in her was genuine. In fact, she’d spent at least an hour on Sunday worried that she’d imagined the whole thing. It just seemed so unreal.
Really, what are the chances? You’re miserable, wishing you could be anywhere but standing in front of your stupid paintings with everyone judging them, and suddenly some handsome guy turns up and sweeps you off your feet? Literally?
And yet… it had happened. And this morning, when she tumbled into work and got her roster for the week, confirmed she still had the evening free, and texted Grant—he’d texted back almost immediately. As though he’d been waiting for her message. For her.
When she opened the door, the first thing she saw on the other side of it was Grant Diaz. All six-foot-enormous of him. And roses.
“Hello,” he said, standing there holding out a bouquet of brilliant red roses. At the sight, all of the butterflies disappeared. “You look beautiful.”
Irina’s heart thudded as he handed her the bouquet and slipped one hand around her waist. With his other hand, he tucked a lock of her hair behind one ear. Then he leaned down and kissed her. Irina forgot all about the flowers, and wound her arms around his neck.
His lips were soft, but the fire they ignited inside Irina burned out of control. She let herself melt into him, sliding her hands up his front to rest on his chest. When he pulled away, she caught hold of his lapels, holding him close to her.
He was as gorgeous as she remembered. Dark hair with a hint of a curl. Killer cheekbones, and those smoldering green eyes.
The suit under her hands fit him like a glove, and she couldn’t help but remember how the last time she had seen him, he was wearing far, far less.
He bent his head, and she could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered:
“I did mean for you to keep the roses, you know.”
“I—oh, hell, I am so sorry,” Irina gasped, mortified. She knelt and snatched up the bouquet from where it had fallen on the steps. “They’re lovely.”
“And only slightly crushed.” Grant took the bouquet, dusted it off, and tucked it under one arm. He offered the other to Irina, eyes lingering as she straightened up. “Do you like the dress?”
Irina took Grant’s arm, fitting herself against his side. “Do I like the dress?” she mused aloud
. “Well, I haven’t dropped it on the ground yet, which puts it one up on the roses.”
Grant’s fingers tightened around her arm. “That’s not fair,” he complained, his voice rough. He glanced up at Irina’s apartment building. “You tease. Unless you want to skip dinner…”
“My roommate is home,” Irina said quickly.
Grant groaned deep in his throat. “Isn’t it your turn to provide the third wheel?”
“Oh my God. I would never hear the end of it.”
Irina started down the steps toward Grant’s car, just in case he was being even slightly serious. Her and Clare’s whole apartment was smaller than Grant’s bedroom. When he imagined her housemate being a third wheel, he probably wasn’t imagining paper-thin walls and piles of pizza boxes.
“And Lance is driving us tonight,” Grant added, ruling out the alternative before Irina even dared to bring it up. He sighed, so dramatically that Irina laughed and dropped her head on his shoulder.
“Lance is driving us?” Irina winced. “Remind me never to apply for a job as a PA.”
She stuck to Grant’s side until they reached the car. Her coat was warm, but he was warmer, a comforting, solid bulk of pure masculinity that warmed her from the inside out. He opened the back door, and she climbed in, almost reluctant to let him go.
“Evening, Ms. Mathers.”
“Oh—hello again, Lance,” she said, seeing him in the driver’s seat and immediately feeling awkward. “Did, uh, did you get home okay the other night?” She blushed furiously, acutely aware that she was why Lance had been left hanging on Friday night. So why are you here tonight, too?
Lance chuckled as Grant took the seat beside Irina. Grant looked from Irina, to the driver, and back. “Oh. Right. Irina, I wasn’t entirely honest with you about Lance here the other night.”
Irina looked sideways at Lance. “Uh…huh?”
“He’s not my PA.”
Irina’s eyes traced the lines of muscle clearly visible through Lance’s jacket. Shoulders, back, biceps—the guy had it all.
“I thought he was a bit beefy for a personal assistant,” she joked. “But I figured he just hit the gym to keep up with you.”