I want to ask about his wife. The question is on the tip of my tongue. But as his sexy gray eyes bore into mine, I change the question at the last minute. “Why are you doing all this for me?”
His usually confident expression turns baffled for a moment, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, Anton Stepanov falters. “I… I don’t know.”
He glances away as if in pain and says nothing else.
A second later, Carolina is back with two more people in tow. The man and woman who accompany her are younger, but they’re both runway-ready and effortlessly cool.
“This is Margie,” Carolina introduces. “And this is Niles. They’ll be assisting me to assist you.” She gives a high-pitched little giggle and pulls out an ivory dress in a material I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
“It looks like it was made out of French butter,” I whisper.
“It’s all about food with you, isn’t it?” Anton chuckles.
I bite back a snort, mostly because it’s unladylike and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Ms. Fancy Pants and her two sidekicks.
“What do you think?” Carolina asks.
“That is beautiful,” I admit. “But I don’t know where I’d wear it.”
“Dinner,” Anton suggests. “With me.”
I throw him a glare. “Unlikely.”
“Just try it on.”
“No.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Jessa.”
I cross my arms. “You can’t make me.”
“Care to bet?”
I gulp. Actually gulp. Because I can see it in his eyes—he will make me if he has to. “Fine,” I growl under my breath. “But only because I want to. Not because you told me to.”
He just smiles at my pathetic attempt to save face as I stand up, snatch the dress from Carolina, and march into one of the dressing rooms.
“Come out when you’ve put it on,” Anton orders me.
The commanding lilt of his voice sends a shiver running down my spine. The good kind of shiver. I ignore it as I remove my clothes and put on the dress.
It feels straight-up amazing. And it’s incredibly flattering as it falls over my hips. The neckline is so deep I have to take off my bra, but the dress is so structured I don’t really need to wear one anyway. Of course, that means I have a serious amount of side boob revealed.
Which I suppose is the point.
I run my hands over the A-line shape that hugs my waist before flowing into the midi skirt. I can’t lie—I feel like a million bucks. I guess that’s how you justify the price tag. Paying a couple thousand to feel like millions is a good deal, right? If you can afford it, that is.
After one more glance in the mirror, I take a deep breath and walk out of my dressing room. Anton hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch. But Carolina has joined him there, legs crossed high to show a shimmering slice of bare thigh beneath the hem of her skirt. I’m only partly mollified by the fact that there’s a conspicuous two-foot chasm between them.
“Hm,” Anton murmurs, his eyes running up and down my body. His gaze is not professional at all. It’s pure sex, like no one else can see us. “Perfect.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the dress itself or me. I choose to believe what I want to believe.
“It’s nice,” I mumble. “But like I said, I don’t know where I would wear it.”
“Leave that to me,” Anton says immediately. “We’ll take it.”
“What?”