by Avery Flynn
Clover: BFF SOS
Daphne: What up?
Clover: Have to go to a charity fundraiser ball thing. What to wear?
Daphne: 1. Awesome! 2. Ummmmmmm…diamonds?
Clover: Funny, you hag.
Daphne: It’s why you love me. My closet is yours.
Clover: You’re the best.
Daphne: LOL. Tell me in person tom morn when I get back to HC
Clover: xoxo
Daphne: :)
After a quick check at the clock, Clover hustled into Daphne’s room in the apartment they’d shared since graduating college. She slid over the bright and patterned hangers to the dark and rarely worn section in the back and pulled out a pair of wine-colored cigarette pants. Okay, she had at least ten pounds on Daphne, but as long as she could still button them then they were something she could build off of. She pivoted and held them out in front of her. One look at her reflection was all the nope she needed.
It shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like she cared what other people thought about her, but it was hard to remember that she was a different person from that awkward small-town girl who years ago had walked into Harbor City University for the first time overwhelmed, scared, and beyond out of her depth. Thank God her dorm roommate turned out to be Daphne. If it hadn’t been for her, Clover might have tucked tail and run back home where it was safe, and that would’ve been the worst thing ever. Daphne had helped her become Clover in more than nickname only.
She went back to Daphne’s closet and started flipping through the hangers again. If only she could call her mom for a little mother/daughter advice chat. She even went so far as to reach for her phone before drawing back her hand without ever touching her cell. Nope. Her mom would have too many questions.
Have you met someone you like?
When are you going to settle down?
What about that one boy from that one trip? He seemed nice.
It would be a why-do-you-make-such-poor-life-choices and why-don’t-I-have-grandbabies-yet guilt fest from the get-go, just like every time they talked. She was so not in the mood for that. Anyway, her mom would probably tell her to do some tired Audrey Hepburn pearls and a little black dress thing—nothing imaginative, nothing fun. If Clover was anything, it was the total opposite of that, which is why she’d left Sparksville in the first place. It was also exactly why she and her mom rarely got along anymore. All her mom wanted was a mini-me Stepford wife clone. All Clover wanted was to forge her own adventurous way.
Having reached the end of the line when it came to Daphne’s closet, Clover started shoving hangers back down the way she’d already come, hopeful she’d missed something fabulous.
An hour later Clover’s bed was covered in piles of black, gold, hot pink, white, and red full-length dresses and long skirts that had been pulled from hers and Daphne’s closets. She’d tried them all on. Some were too small. Others were just laughably wrong on her. Sawyer was going to be here any minute and Clover stood in the middle of her room in bare feet, a sports bra, hair in a high ponytail, and Daphne’s floor-length, simple black chiffon skirt.
Clover did a quick spin in front of the mirror to watch the skirt twirl. After spending the last hour changing clothes with the seriousness of a woman facing the guillotine, she had to do something just for fun. She was halfway through the turn—her reflection a blur in the mirror—when the idea hit.
She sprinted over to her dresser, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a sequined black racerback crop top. After nearly dislocating her shoulder wriggling out of the sports bra from hell, she put on an equally uncomfortable strapless bra and slipped on the top. It came to rest at the bottom of her rib cage, showing off the three inches of pale skin above the skirt’s waistband. A pair of strappy designer-knockoff black stilettos and a pair of chandelier earrings with sparkling fake emeralds completed the look.
One look in the mirror and Clover’s nerves evaporated into mist. The outfit wasn’t Harbor City socialite material, but neither was she—and thank God for that. She grabbed her phone, snapped a selfie, and sent it to Daphne.
Daphne: OMG yes!!!
Clover: You really think?
Daphne: Fuck yes. You slay! Hate missing this.
Clover: Miss you, too. Catch up tomorrow?
Daphne: Hells yes. Croissants and coffee on me.
Clover’s phone vibrated in her hand.
The number that flashed on the screen was the one Amara had given her for Sawyer. The text read: Now.
Clover: Gotta go.
Daphne: Kill ’em with hotness!
Clover: xoxo
Hustling as quick as she could in the steep heels, Clover dropped her phone and her lipstick into a little purse as she quick-stepped it to the door. She paused at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, steel her spine, and give herself a ten-second pep talk.
You’re there to do your job. Don’t let all the rich bitches scare you.
With that, she opened the door and hurried out into the evening and toward the ebony Town Car double parked in front of her building.
…
Sawyer scrolled through email on his phone while he cooled his heels in the backseat of his chauffeured car. Still no response from Mr. Lim about the tweaked proposal he’d sent last week. Something was wrong—that Sawyer couldn’t pinpoint the problem made him twitch. Deals like this one didn’t come along every day, and Sawyer wasn’t about to miss out on it. Whatever it took, he was going to land it.
“Sir,” his driver said. “I believe your date has arrived.”
“She’s not my date, Linus. She’s—” He looked out the window and the next words died on his tongue.
Clover stood at the top of the steps leading to the door of the brownstone, looking very much like a very not plain Jane. The sequins on her black top that molded itself against her high curves sparkled in the setting sun’s light, showering the bare slash of toned skin above her waistband in dots of light. The sight drew his attention like a tractor beam. The filmy skirt that fell from her waist to the ground teased at what was underneath as she sailed down the stairs, all smooth sex appeal and tempting promise. Even her hair tantalized—a long, golden silk rope of a ponytail that his fingers itched to either take down or wrap around his fist as he—
Fuck, Carlyle. Get your shit together. You do not get to go there. She may not be technically an employee, but she’s still off-limits. Very. Off. Limits.
“Yeah, tell that to my cock,” he muttered to himself as he pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk just as Linus was rounding the front of the Town Car to hold open the door. The driver arched an eyebrow at Sawyer’s break in a long-established protocol but kept the rest of his face bland and unreadable.
It was enough though. Sawyer ground his teeth together, determined to pull back from whatever brink he was toeing.
“Jane…”
Her smile lost some of its wattage as she crossed her arms and popped out one hip, the move emphasizing the fullness of her tits and the soft curve of her waist. His brain fizzled—a condition he was beginning to worry wouldn’t fix itself as long as he kept wondering what the exposed bare expanse of her stomach would feel like under his fingers.
“Clover,” she said.
“Yes, Clover,” he said, trying to restart the synapses in his brain, which was a lot easier said than done when he was this close to her. “Did you need some more time to finish getting ready?”
The words—obviously a desperate plea from his subconscious—were out before he could stop them and hung in the air like a half-deflated balloon.
“I am ready,” she replied, her tone a few degrees warmer than ice cream. “Why? Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Yes. No. It’s…” Sexy as hell. “Different.”
There went her chin. “So am I.”
“This isn’t exactly an event for different.” Shut up, Carlyle. Shut the fuck up.
Her brown eyes narrowed, a
nd she let out an angry little hurumph. “Then I guess you don’t need me.”
With that declaration, she spun around, giving him a perfect view of the skirt clinging to her ass—which he shouldn’t be noticing—as she marched back toward the stairs leading to her door. He’d already fucked this up enough as it was. Everyone knew he wasn’t the charming Carlyle, that was Hudson. Sawyer was the asshole Carlyle, and he’d just proven it by letting his prick do the thinking and then acting like one when he was talking.
He hustled a few steps forward and caught her elbow before she got any farther away, trying his best to ignore the jolt of electricity that went straight to his cock. “Please don’t.”
Yanking her arm out of his loose grasp, she rounded on him—fire in her eyes and something that looked a lot like hurt shimmering underneath. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?” As long as it wasn’t him making a public ass of himself, he was totally on board.
“Don’t complain about what I wear,” she said, her voice tight and a little higher than normal. “It’s not like most people who specialize in temp jobs have closets full of ball gowns and formal dresses.”
You are a privileged douchebag, Carlyle. All those details he’d missed before came into focus. The anxious thrum of her pulse in her neck. The way her bottom lip was slightly swollen, no doubt from nervous nibbling. The way she fiddled with the skirt as if she wasn’t used to wearing it or it didn’t feel quite like her. The whole mind-blowing look he had taken in at first glance, but per usual he missed the details and the little tics that clued him in about the emotions simmering underneath.
After his dad’s unexpected death, he’d compensated for this massive shortcoming by being extra careful with his mom, never rocking the boat when it came to her. That’s what had gotten him into this mess where he needed a personal buffer. There had to be some middle ground between the forest and the trees, but damned if he knew—or had ever known—where it was.
“You’re right,” he said, meaning every word. “I’m sorry.”
Accepting his apology with a stiff nod, she strode past him to where Linus held the car door open. “Shall we go?”
Without waiting for his answer, she slid into the backseat of the Town Car. He followed behind, ignoring the clear look of disappointment in Linus’s eyes that even Sawyer couldn’t miss. The driver had known him since he was a kid and had watched him grow up in the backseat of his dad’s car as often as he could persuade the old man into taking him into the office. His dad used to say that there was no better sounding board than Linus. For his part, Linus said he just knew how to “uh-huh” at the right times.
The door clicked shut behind Sawyer, and he found himself sitting almost knee to knee with Clover. He needed to say something—anything—but once again the Carlyle charm fizzled out when it came to Sawyer, so he clamped his mouth shut and kept it that way the entire trip to The Grand Hotel.
Somewhere out there, Hudson was laughing his ass off. And his mom? God, he couldn’t wait to see what her reaction would be to seeing Clover on his arm.
Chapter Four
To be honest, Clover’s first high-society gala was kind of a disappointment. None of the women were dripping in diamonds or draped in fur—too gauche no doubt. The men in tuxedos were more balding-banker types than spies-who-liked-their-martinis-shaken-not-stirred. Everyone was very polite and very not interested in talking to her once it made the rounds that she wasn’t one of the East Upton Lees who counted most of the country’s oil refineries in their portfolio, but just a regular Lee from little ol’ Sparksville.
Even Helene had kept her distance, holding court on the opposite end of the enormous ballroom surrounded by a trio of obvious bride candidates who couldn’t keep their eyes off Sawyer. Not that he seemed to notice. Nope. He’d spent the last hour looking to-die-for hot in his tux while either sexy-glowering at her (it’s apparently a thing) or on his phone as he talked business. It wasn’t fair. No one should be that hot and that annoying at the same time. Not that it mattered. She was here as Sawyer’s buffer not his date. It was best—if not particularly easy—to remember that when he was looking all 007.
Even worse? At the moment, she was about as useful and necessary as a bike to a fish, which meant she was thoroughly and completely bored. Plus, her feet hurt in the kill-me-now heels she’d borrowed. Shifting her weight, she snuck one foot out of her heel and stretched her toes under the cover of the floor-length skirt. Her foot did everything but sing the Hallelujah Chorus in gratitude at being set free from its narrow prison.
Of course, that’s when a man appeared out of nowhere by her side, startling her and sending her awkwardly wobbling on her one foot that was still in a shoe.
His hand shot out to steady her, releasing her almost as fast as he’d saved her from tumbling over. “You don’t have to confirm it, but I can tell,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Your date’s a dud.”
“It’s not a date.” The truth came out before she could think better. Sigh. When would she learn to just keep her mouth shut? Sawyer had been so tight-lipped in the car, she didn’t know what cover story—if any—he wanted her to use.
“Really? Then let me introduce myself. Tyler Jacobson,” he said. “And since it appears your date is not a date, that must mean you’re free to dance.”
Not a good idea when she was on the job. “I’m allergic.”
“To dancing or to handsome men?”
She chuckled. He was definitely handsome. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, and enough charm to get a starving man to offer up his last bite of bread. “A little of both.”
He swiped a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to her. “Luckily for you, I happen to know that this is the cure.”
She took a sip, smiling for the first time since she’d walked out her front door. A little harmless flirting at a gala—now that was an adventure she hadn’t had before. The night was beginning to look up.
“You don’t give up, do you?” she teased.
Tyler’s smile was for her, but his gaze slid sideways to Sawyer as he talked on his phone to someone about Singapore. “Not once I’ve set my mind to something.”
Clover’s spider sense tingled as she looked between Sawyer and the other man in his equally well-fitting tux. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”
“One dance, that’s all. Then I’ll bring you right back to your dreadfully boring not-date.”
“He’s not boring.” Infuriating? Stuffy? Devastating to her panties? She’d give a hell yes to all the above, but not boring.
“Whatever you say.” He took the champagne from her hand and set it on a passing waiter’s tray, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out onto the dance floor.
One dance. One fantasy moment with a man who looked straight out of central casting. A little adventure to put in her memory bank. Nothing in her job duties said no dancing. She’d just be sure to keep an eye on Sawyer, and if Helene—or anyone else—approached, she’d slip away from her partner. Until then, it was Cinderella time.
Like every other song the band had played tonight, it was a slow one. So here she was in the arms of a handsome stranger in a tux in the middle of The Grand Hotel, which totally stayed true to its name with the amount of columns and marble and sparkling brilliance, and danced. It was a scene right out of a princess movie—and about as sexy. There was no zing from his fingertips on her waist. No languorous desire sliding across her skin. No anticipation pushing her to close the very socially-acceptable gap between their bodies.
“So how did you and Sawyer meet?” Tyler asked, his tone light but the look in his much more serious eyes told another story.
She had no frickin’ clue what was going on between the men, but for once she wasn’t going to step smack dab in the middle of it. Nope. She was going to keep her motor mouth out of trouble.
“Underground fight club,” she said with all the seriousness she could muster. “H
e bet against me. And lost.”
Tyler laughed. “Now that I wouldn’t doubt. Never bet against a woman in black.”
“How do you know Sawyer?” Diam! The mental Malay order came too late—the words already out of her mouth.
All the teasing charm died away. “What makes you think I do?”
“Women’s intuition.” And the fact that he couldn’t stop talking about Sawyer.
“He was the best man at my wedding, well, almost wedding.”
That threw her enough that she lost a step and hastened to pick up the rhythm again. “Almost wedding?”
He shrugged and spun her around on the dance floor. “My fiancée liked my best man more than me.”
“Ouch.” She couldn’t keep the horror off her face. “They didn’t…”
“Not that I know of, but who knows.”
Wow. She needed to stop talking. Now. Too bad her mouth had other ideas. “You’re very blasé about it all.”
“It was years ago, and anyway”—he paused and turned a devastatingly sexy and completely disingenuous smile on her—“now I have you to distract me from my deep, dark wound and repair the hole in my heart from the loss of the woman I loved and the man who’d been my best friend since prep school.”
Someone had spent too much time in the melodrama category on Netflix. Either that or he was used to dealing with socialites who’d take him at his word. And here she’d thought growing up in Sparksville that the Harbor City rich were so much more sophisticated than that.
“You’re laying it on a little thick there.”
His smile didn’t falter, but some actual fun seeped into it. “Too much?”
“Oh yeah.” She nodded, matching his mock serious tone.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to find another way to steal you away from him. Good thing I’m a helluva lot more adventurous. How about breakfast in Paris, lunch in Milan, and dinner Barcelona?”
A large hand clapped down on her dance partner’s shoulder—not hard enough to cause a scene but definitely serious enough to make a point—and brought their dancing to a jarring halt. Sawyer stood behind Tyler, all predatory determination and sizzling heat. Her belly did that flip-flop thing that released all the stupid kamikaze butterflies in her stomach and her breath caught.