Chapter 39

Thirty-Nine

SCOTTIE

I feel like a child, which is fitting because I'm acting like one too.

"Turn around, Biscotti."

The sound of my foot stomping on the dressing room floor causes Emory's lip to hitch. I dart my gaze behind his large frame, and he takes a step forward.

"There's no way out, so just turn around and get this over with."

He's right.

I'd have to dart around him and run like the wind if I truly wanted to evade trying on one of these high-end, costly dresses, so I give up and spin around. I catch his eye in the mirror and roll mine at the triumphant look on his face. He reaches forward, but I rip my shirt off before he has a chance to do it.

"I don't need your help."

I zero in on his face. His blue eyes are wilder than normal. "Funny, you did last night," he mutters.

My entire body floods with heat. I turn around in nothing but my jeans and bra. "We are not talking about last night."

Emory leans against the wall and crosses his arms. He is so hot I have to look away. I've purposefully kept the image of him in the shower out of my head, but with him sharing the small space with me, it's all I can think about.

"Good, because I don't think words could describe last night."

Oh god.

I bite the inside of my cheek and unbutton my jeans, pretending that his sultry gaze following my every move doesn't make a difference.

Last night was a short blip in time where I momentarily lost my footing. The fact that he got me a biscotti, took my car to get serviced, and secretly paid the remainder of my lease is nice and all, but it doesn't change anything.

"Try that one first." Emory nods to the bright-red dress, so I make sure to grab a different one.

I hear his deep chuckle when I toss the hanger on the floor, just to make a point. When I glance at him through the mirror while stepping into the silky dress, my stomach flips. His kissable lips are slightly parted as he stares at me from behind. My heart skips, which is never a good sign. I quickly try to pull the dress up past my hips, but by the end of trying to get the dress on, I'm a shaky, scrambling mess.

Emory stays glued to the wall, watching me, and I know I look like a disaster. I'm chaos, while he stands there, completely relaxed in harmony.

I reach behind myself and attempt to pull the zipper up and pray to God I can do it on my own, but after I almost snap my elbow, Emory pushes off the wall and slides up behind me. His presence is heavy. The smell of his cologne fills the small dressing room, and I suddenly feel like I'm in a daze.

Focus, Scottie.

Our eyes snag in the mirror. The energy buzzing between us is undeniable. My body is seconds from betraying me, even with my pragmatic ability to deny that anything is happening between us. I have a sudden need to back up against him just to feel his body heat mingle with mine, but I don't.

I stay completely still and try to smooth my features so he doesn't know that ever since he kissed me in that club, weeks ago, I haven't quite been the same.

His finger brushes against my spine as he pulls the zipper higher, and I stop breathing. Why do his touches suddenly feel seductive?

Last night was a mistake.

That much is clear by the fact that I can't breathe properly with him behind me.

The sound of my bra unclasping catches my ear, and I snap to attention.

"You can't wear a bra with this."

He's right, but a warning would have been nice.

Maybe then I could tell my nipples to stop rearing their pebbled heads, giving me away.

One strap falls down to my elbow, then goes the other. A chill moves down my spine, and I know Emory notices. Surprisingly, he says nothing. He stares down at my bra after I discard it to the floor, then his lazy gaze moves to the mirror.

In an attempt to hide my betraying breasts, I place my hands there to hold the dress up.

It's a beautiful dress, and the feel of silk against my bare skin tells me it's worth the eight-hundred-dollar price tag. The color looks good too, even if Emory was trying to irritate me by pulling all the red dresses off the racks.

Though it isn't a low-cut dress, it's still sexy. It's classy with a tight bodice full of pretty lace that shows some of my skin underneath. It flows gracefully around my hips and to the floor. When Emory's hands fall to my waist, the movement pulls some of the fabric out of the way. We both stare at the slit in the front that gives a clear visual of my leg.

It's hard to see myself in something like this.

I didn't go to prom. I've never had the opportunity to wear a dress besides the moment I put one on for our wedding photos, and this one makes me feel…desirable.

"Well?" he asks.

I look everywhere but the mirror.

Emory steps backward, and the second he removes his hands, I want them back.

Clearing my throat, I shrug. "It's fine."

"It's fine?" he repeats.

Still keeping my stare pinned to the hanger laying on the floor, I nod.

I feel him move close to me, and I can't keep myself from meeting his face in the mirror.

His light eyes darken like a storm, and his heavy brow line deepens. "It's more than fine."

In an attempt to look away, I drop my chin, but he's there to catch it.

His fingers squeeze it gently, and his whisper brushes against my ear. "Hasn't anyone ever told you how irresistible you are?"

I stare into his eyes and refuse to acknowledge the heat simmering underneath my skin from his touch.

"What can I say to get you to see what I see when I look at you?"

I swallow my pride. If he's being sincere, then I guess I will too. I lower my shackles, and a quiet, sad laugh leaves me. "I'm pretty sure that every time you look at me, you're reminded of how we met. You probably see nothing but desperation and selfishness."

"I wish that's what I saw," he admits.

His rough, callused fingers drag down my neck and over my collarbone until he lands at my waist. I tremble in his grip, and I curse my body for giving me away. It craves the contact between us, and he knows it.

Suddenly feeling like I need to gain some type of control, I take the initiative and ask my own question, instead of only allowing him to ask them. "What do you see, then?"

"I see a ring on your finger."

I glance down at the diamond glistening under the soft glow of the fitting room light.

"A ring that says you're mine."

I go to protest, but then Emory's hand starts to grip the silky fabric of the dress. My leg is fully exposed, and we're both drawn to it. My pulse thrums, and my heart races.

What is he doing?

His hot whisper sends heat in between my legs. "The only desperation I see is how desperate you are for me to touch you again."

Deny it.

"You're only supposed to touch me when people are around." My voice is breathy. "That's what the contract says."

"There are plenty of customers roaming around. Not to mention, the dress seller who has walked past multiple times."

Emory's hand grazes the bare skin of my leg, and the room spins. My eyes shut, and my legs grow unsteady. I lean against his chest, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that's telling me to escape the trap.

" Emory ." His name is more of a whine than a whisper. "Last night was a mistake, and you know it."

"I'll stop if you want me to." He grips my thigh, running a finger to the inside of my knee and up again. "But I think this is the only way to get you to understand that you're fucking irresistible, Scottie, despite how mouthy you are when it comes to me."

"So you're touching me because you want me to believe you?" My hips betray me and tilt forward in an attempt to pull his hand up higher.

Scottie, focus.

"What if I were to tell you I'm only touching you because everyone outside this dressing room needs convincing that we're a happily married couple that can't keep our hands to ourselves?"

I open my eyes, and when I see the desire etched into his steely features, I give in.

"Then I say you better keep it up because, after all, this is my job, right?"