“To seduce the Bishop?”
“Molly.” Her stomach twisted at the thought of being so close to all that raw male heat, desire entangled with a fear that seemed woven into her bones. “No,” she said to her best friend. “Clothes, I need help with clothes.”
“You’re changing your wardrobe?” This time the question was gentle, hopeful.
Biting down on her lower lip, Charlotte fisted her hands. “I can’t go to a major meeting like this.” She waved a hand over the baggy black dress she had on, forgetting Molly couldn’t see her. “Mr. Bishop—”
“Mr. Bishop?” Molly repeated. “I’m your best friend. I know you don’t think of him as Mr. Bishop.”
The teasing was just what she needed to get back on an even keel. Making a face over the phone line, she said, “I was going to say T-Rex has been very patient.” Unexpectedly so. “He could’ve ordered me to get a better wardrobe the day he gave me the promotion.” She scowled. “The day he forced a promotion on me.”
“That job was always yours. He just made sure you’re getting paid for it now.”
Charlotte rubbed her hand free hand over her face. “I just don’t know if I can do it.” Her messed-up psychology wasn’t that complicated; she knew exactly why she wore what she did. Knowing that clothes made no difference, wouldn’t have changed what had happened to her, didn’t alter anything. The clothes she chose made her feel invisible, and even if that was a lie, it was a lie she needed to function.
“You know it wasn’t your clothes that made Dick do what he did.” Anger thrummed through her friend’s voice. “You could’ve worn a potato sack every day or a high-powered suit or a miniskirt, and it wouldn’t have changed the fact that he’s a vicious asshole.”
Charlotte knew that if Molly’d had her way, she’d have found and kicked the living shit out of Richard. “It’s not logical,” she admitted to the best friend who had always, always been there for her, “it’s about control. I just feel like I’m doing something to protect myself when I dress this way, even when I know what I’m actually doing is hiding.”
“Hey, you know my rule—no putting yourself down.”
“I wasn’t. I was being brutally honest.” She blew out a breath. “It’s time I faced my neuroses head-on.”
“A little neurotic behavior makes us interesting.”
“Who said anything about a little?” Glancing at her watch, Charlotte walked quickly toward a small store that usually had a good petite selection; she wasn’t sure she’d get a chance tomorrow and they had an early flight to Queenstown on Sunday. “I’ll send you photos from the changing room.” She could do this, could lose her cloak of invisibility and survive.
Going backward was no longer an option.
Not when she’d fenced with a T-Rex and come out alive on the other side.
HAVING SHREDDED—UNREAD—THE letter from the man who thought he should have the right to call himself Gabriel’s father when he’d done fuck all to earn that right, Gabriel called the man who was his father, though they shared no DNA. It was Joseph Esera’s heritage that Gabriel wore on his body, the design drawn by his stepfather and inked by a stepuncle who was an artist specializing in Samoan tattoos.
Every line had a meaning, a history.
Each part of the overall design had been given to him as a gift on a momentous occasion in his life, starting from his rugby selection at eighteen. Some of the tats had hurt like a bitch, but Gabriel’s pride in honoring his stepfather—in being embraced so absolutely as Joseph’s son—was deeper than any fleeting pain.
“Hey, Dad. What did the doc say about Danny?” His youngest brother had been benched to make sure he healed properly from a hamstring injury that had occurred in an earlier game. Though only twenty-one, Daniel Esera was already making a name for himself as a halfback to watch, and his coach had taken the “better to be safe than sorry” approach. It was the right decision, but Danny had been itching at the bit for the past two weeks.
“Cleared him.” Joseph’s response was jubilant. “He’ll be on the pitch tomorrow.”
Gabriel grinned, making a mental note to message his baby brother in congratulations. “Are you and Mom still doing that movie thing?”
Joseph and Alison had found one another when Gabriel was eight and his brother, Sailor, six. A marriage as soon as his mom’s divorce was final, two more kids, and more than two decades later, they were still nuts for one another. Enough that Joseph, a big man’s man who’d earned a name as an enforcer on the rugby field, had agreed to “romcom date nights” with Alison, regardless of the fact he’d rather have rusty metal spikes driven into his eyeballs.
“Of course we’re doing the movie thing,” Joseph said now. “You think we’re about to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary because I’m an idiot?”
Laughing, Gabriel talked with his stepfather for a few more minutes before ending the call and messaging his brother. The twin interactions wiped away the anger he’d felt at seeing that letter, that ridiculous handwriting that was all flourish and no substance, just like the man who’d formed the words.
“Ms. Baird,” he said, going to the doorway so he could playfully needle his PA—who was starting to no longer quiver in his presence… and who was getting more and more attractive every day.