Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
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.