Page 43 of Strictly Business

“What I think,” he cuts me off again, stepping even closer, “is that you look uncomfortable as hell in this.” He tugs lightly at the sleeve of my blazer, his fingers brushing my arm. “And I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or pretend to be someone else. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to them.” His eyes meet mine, dark and intense, stealing my breath right out of my lungs. “Unless you like wearing an outfit that you can’t lift your arms in, go back into your room and put on the sweaters you love so much.”

I gape at him, my brain short-circuiting. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. For a second before he turns on his heel and walks to the bar, pouring himself a glass of water.

“Get dressed, Amara,” he says over his shoulder, his voice gruff.

I turn, retreating to my room, seeing Pumpkin curled in a pumpkin-shaped ball on my bed. Nicholas’s words echo in my mind as I peel off the blazer and pants, feeling immediate relief.He was right. This outfit is uncomfortable as hell, itchy, stiff, andsonot me.

I grab my favorite pink sweater from the closet, slipping it on with a sigh of relief. The soft knit hugs me in all the right places, comforting and familiar. I tuck it into my favorite skirt, swap the heels for sneakers, and glance at my reflection.

It’s not glamorous. I don’t look like the fiancée of a billionaire. I just look… like me.

My shoulders slump as I grab my bag and step out of the room. Nicholas looks up immediately, his gaze sharp and assessing. His lips part slightly, and he drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to hide something.

“Much fucking better,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before.

My heart skips.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

I nod, following him out the door, my heart pounding in my chest.

“This is our ride?” I stop in my tracks, staring at the sleek black helicopter parked in front of us. My voice is laced with disbelief as I take in the polished exterior and spinning blades, the sound somehow already making my stomach churn.

Nicholas hardly spares it a glance as he keeps walking, one hand tucked into his pocket, his tailored suit moving as fluidly as he does. “Where we’re going is a little far to drive,” he says simply, like he does this every day, which, knowing him, he probably does.

“So, we’re taking ahelicopter?”

Nicholas glances over his shoulder, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. “Unless you’d prefer to sit in a car for four hours?”

Four hours. My brain stumbles over the number. Where on earth is he taking me? I don’t ask because I’m still stuck on the fact that we’re about to leave the ground in that deathtrap.

Before I can find the words, Nicholas opens the door and steps inside like he’s done this a million times.

“Where’s the pilot?” I ask, looking around to see if there’s anyone else coming that will fly that thing.

He pauses, one hand on the edge of the seat as he looks at me like I’ve just asked if the sky is blue. “You’re looking at him.”

I blink. “You’reflying this?”

Nicholas raises a brow. “Something wrong with that?”

Yes. A lot of things, actually. “Are you even qualified?”

His lips twitch, but not enough to call it a smile. He shrugs, stepping fully inside. “I’ve been flying since I was sixteen, Amara. You’ll be fine.”

Fine.Sure. Because who doesn’t casually pilot helicopters in their spare time?

“Get in.”

I hesitate, staring at the open door like it’s about to swallow me whole, and climb in, muttering a quiet prayer under my breath.

The interior is even more intimidating than the outside. The seats are sleek black leather, the dashboard packed with an overwhelming number of buttons, switches, and levers.

I climb into the seat, carefully smoothing down my skirt, and fumble with the seatbelt, my nerves making my fingers clumsy.

“Relax, Amara,” Nicholas murmurs, his voice soft and low as he reaches for the seatbelt.

“I can do it,” I say quickly, fumbling with the buckle. My hands are shaking, and of course, it won’t click into place.

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