Page 55 of Beyond Question

The next night, there’s a knock on my front door promptly at seven o’clock. I freeze, still having trouble believing I’ve actuallyfinallyconvinced this woman to go ontwodates with me—and two nights in a row, no less.

After a brief moment of stupor, Paige knocks again and I shake myself out of it, then hurry toward the door. When I swing it open, I’m nearly knocked backwards at the sight of her.

She’s in a dress.

A fucking dress shouldn’t have blood rushing to my cock. Women wear dresses all the time.

Butthiswoman in a dress is not just any regular old dress. Or any regular woman.

“Paige,” I say, then swallow because my voice sounds ridiculous.

“Hi.” She smiles slowly and my heart beats faster as her gaze scans me from head to toe.

“Woman.” I reach for her, then tug her inside, right into my arms where she belongs. “You can’t look at me like that. We should take things…”Oh fuck, is this really happening?“Slowly.”

She’s still for a moment, probably stunned like the rest of us, then she nods against my chest.

Well, I’ve really stepped in it now, haven’t I?

I’mthatguy. Thetake things slowlyguy.

Fantastic.

I release her somewhat reluctantly, because keeping her in my arms won’t shove those words back into my mouth and down my throat into the pit of my stomach where they belong.

“Slowly.” Paige takes a deep breath, then nods again. “I think that’s wise.”

I smile, butwiseis stupid.

I hate wise.

I definitely do not, at all,everwant to bewisewith this woman.

Dragging my hand through my hair I take a step backwards, putting a little distance between us—because that’s what people who are taking it slowly do—and let my gaze travel down her body again. “You look…” I shake my head.

It’s a simple dress. Black, of course, but it dips low in the front, giving me the slightest sliver of cleavage. And the way it fans out over her hips makes me want to fall to my knees and worship at her feet.

“You like the dress.”

I drag my gaze back up to her face. “I do.”

“Good.” She pats my chest as she steps past me, heading deeper into my apartment. “Don’t get used to it.”

I place my hand over my heart. “You wound me.”

She laughs and I try not to be distracted by cataloging the sound to memory.

Tonight, Paige’s pop of color is a pair of Kelly green low top Converse and matching green glasses, and I’m struck by the fact that I’ve been with countless women who care more about labels and brand names than anything else. They don’t believe in quiet luxury or finding their own style. Women who drape themselves in Karl and Christian and reek like Chanel and yet it’sthiswoman, with her quirky green glasses and matching sneakers, that lifted brow… it’s this woman who has my fucking heart in her hands.

Like I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.

Probably because I was hanging out at GILD and Elio’s, and, well, not looking for love at all, honestly.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” she says as she sets her purse down on a chair, then spins in a slow circle as she surveys my place. My heart thumps a wild rhythm against my ribs. What if she hates it here?

I didn’t think this through.

My apartment is not as extravagant as Cabot’s penthouse, but it might as well be.

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