He flips around and heads inside the depths of my room. “What are you wearing? Let’s start there.”
He marches to my closet and starts pushing things aside. There’s barely anything there—a few skirts, some dresses, two pairs of jeans, and some shirts.
He yanks out a long dress. “This one.”
I sputter at the golden puppies frolicking on the velvet fabric as they chase a robin, the background a beautiful pastoral scene with tall trees and rolling hills. “That is a muumuu—for Myrtle. I forgot to give it to her. It’s five sizes too big, and it will hang on me like a shower curtain.”
“With your flip-flops,” he continues, as if I haven’t vetoed him. “Minimal makeup, no perfume.”
“Your fashion sense clearly extends to males only. We’ll blame this choice on your lack of sleep.” I brush past him, pulling the dress out of his hand, my robe parting, my cleavage drawing his gaze. After hanging the muumuu back up, I snatch two new dresses and flash them in front of me. “Ready-to-ride red or no-back black?” I swish them back and forth. “I have lingerie to match either.”
He lets out a breath.
The scarlet-colored dress hits several inches above my knee with a long slit up the back, the bodice a halter top with a plunging neckline and delicate see-through lace on the back. The black one is even shorter with a flirty skirt, skater-girl style. The torso is fitted with a scoop neck and a back that’s open and laces up.
He juts his chin at Myrtle’s. “Everyone adores puppies. He has a daughter, yes?”
I barely recall telling him that.
“Not trying to impress the kid; it’s the man.” I pull out the stilettos—three inches, black, and strappy. “Either dress goes with the shoes. Which one will make a man choke on his chicken leg?”
His jaw pops as he gives me a long look. “Black one.”
I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s him I want to wear it for, him I want to be at my birthday lunch.
“Sold. Let’s hope he likes it.”
He moves to the bedroom door, his back to me as he mutters, “He’ll love it.”
“Are you jealous?” He can’t expect me not to meet Mike, not when he’s spelled out where we stand.
I follow him down the hall. He doesn’t reply but keeps walking and gets all the way to the front of the penthouse and snatches his keys. He pauses, gathering himself, as he rolls his neck.
He turns to me, and we stare at each other.
Everything from last night—from the club, to Cindy, to him pounding on the wall—rises up and boils like a dark cauldron of emotion, simmering and churning, thoughts I put on hold, but after him touching me on the couch and his stupid dress idea, they can’t be stopped.
“You are, and you can’t stand it.” My voice ripples with hard truth. He wants me—maybe more than just want, and the fierce girl inside me pounces. She’s had enough. She demands.
He takes a deep breath, forest-green eyes on me as he grapples for the door behind him. “I fucking hate it,” he snaps. “From Brandt to Greg to whoever the fuck that guy was last night, I’m—shit, Giselle, they don’t deserve you, and I don’t, either, but I want you, and I’m at a crossroads; it’s go left or go right . . . to you. I’m scared you’re gonna, I don’t know . . . hurt me.” He pulls in air. “I have to go.” And then he’s out the door.
All the air in the room disappears, and I fall back on the chair in the den. Just let me in, Devon. Please.
Chapter 19
GISELLE
The sun is blazing when I pull into Mama’s driveway at one on the nose in the Maserati. It’s only her Cadillac in the driveway, and I let out a deep sigh of relief. Maybe Aunt Clara was busy. Maybe Topher had something to do. Maybe it will just be me and her. With worry about the dynamic between Devon and me, I just want to sit at her house, eat, and go back home and wait for him. Just as I’m about to get out of the car, my phone rings with an unknown number. Thinking it might be one of the kids from class, I snatch it up. Final exams are next week, and they might need me.
“Hello?”
“Giselle Riley?”
“Yes.” I don’t recognize the voice, her tone brusque yet warm.
She laughs. “I apologize for calling on a Sunday. I do admin work on Sunday and thought you wouldn’t mind, especially since you sent me the email with urgent as the header. I’m Dr. Susan Benson.”
My hand clutches the phone. I’d sent an email to her after my disastrous meeting with Dr. Blanton. She graduated from MIT at nineteen, got her PhD at Harvard, spent time in Switzerland, then came back to the US and settled in Nashville. She was on a brief sabbatical when I entered the program, or I would have asked her to be my advisor. “Thank you for calling!” I say, trying to keep my excitement at a decent decibel. “Your research on the spin memory effect is groundbreaking. I’ve read it a hundred times. Being part of that study must have been incredible.”