His gaze moved over me in a slow sweep, like he was taking in every detail and committing all of it to memory. The thorough way he examined me felt no different than if he’d used his hands to do it, and goosebumps pebbled on my arms.
My breath hung when he reached out and plucked something from the fabric covering my shoulder. It was a piece of lint too small to see in his fingers, or just an excuse to touch me, but I wasn’t going to complain. As he moved away, his fingertips grazed down my arm.
He spoke softly, but it was deceptive. Power swelled behind his words. “The weekends too, Sophia. Every day, I want to see what you’ve chosen to wear for me.”
I exhaled and shuddered.
“You’re shaking,” he said, pretending to be surprised, but it was an act. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Are you nervous about this arrangement?”
“No,” I admitted in a rush. “I’m excited.”
He smiled darkly, his eyes thrilled. “Good. I am too.” Our gazes held for so long, I worried I’d burst from the tension, but he turned abruptly and motioned toward the box. “You’ll start tomorrow by wearing this.”
The dress was silver-gray, with bishop sleeves that went to my elbows, and deep V that plunged down so low, I wouldn’t be able to wear a regular bra with it. I glanced at him then back to the dress, unsure. Did he realize how much cleavage I’d be showing at the office?
I thought about his schedule. He had three hours blocked off tomorrow to discuss the rollout of a programming update, so yeah. He totally knew.
Normally, I despised waking up early, but handing control over to Macalister suddenly made it easy. Each morning since I’d agreed to his offer, I was eager to select the perfect look, snap a picture, and text it to him.
I imagined him standing in his enormous closet, his crisp dress shirt not buttoned yet and a swatch of his bare chest visible, his sleeve cuffs unpinned as he paused to glance at his phone. He’d scrutinize the image then thumb out the word that set my blood on fire.
Approved.
It was a word I longed to hear in any of its forms. Accepted. Chosen. Yes.
In reality, he was probably already dressed and on his way to the office by the time my text came through, but it was more fun to imagine the scenario my way. And after a week of texting, I got my first note.
Macalister: Your hair will be worn up.
So, I twisted it back into a bun, put on longer earrings, and sent an update.
Macalister: Approved.
It was unreal the effect that word had on me.
We fell in sync with each other. I delivered his morning coffee and went over his schedule with him, making adjustments as needed, and then I’d take what few minutes I had with him to go over salacious details. Who needed to go to rehab, who was caught with questionable porn on their phone, which guy was rumored to be sleeping with his stepdaughter.
The last one didn’t sit all that well with him, but it probably hit too close to what he’d tried to do with Marist.
The day before we were set to leave for Aspen, my desk was a mess, and Macalister gave me some serious side-eye about it before heading into his office after lunch. I sighed once he’d closed the door. I had too much on my plate right now to be tidy, but his irritation ate at me.
I was reorganizing the stack of things still needing my attention when my phone rang. Why was Natasha calling me? Usually we just texted. She worked for a busy literary agency in New York, which meant she never had time to talk.
“Hello?”
“Hey, girl,” she said. “I’ve got some bad news.”
It was apparently bad enough to warrant a call, so I braced myself. “What’s wrong?”
“I just got off the phone with my boss. James DuBois’s mother died this morning.”
All the air went out of the room. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. I know you were hoping to meet up with him in Aspen, but that’s off his schedule now. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
My mind raced with panic. Everything Macalister and I had been working toward, and now our plans were scrapped. What the hell was I going to do?
“You still there?” Natasha asked.
“Yeah, sorry.” I stared blankly off into the distance. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure thing. I gotta run. My next client is—”
“Wait!” The idea formed, taking shape quickly. “I need a favor, please.”
After hanging up, I was instantly out of my seat and marched into Macalister’s office, hurrying to close the door behind me. He raised his critical gaze to me and the now-closed door, and suspicion cast over his face.