Page 63 of For the Plot
My breath catches in my throat. He’s still watching me, calm as hell while he talks business with his CFO.
I smile to myself, not wanting to give him the only satisfaction in this little game.
Me:Why’d you stop there? Might as well unbutton a few buttons while you’re at it.
He smirks but doesn’t reply. Just reaches down to adjust himself.
Good.
The table might be wide, but it’s not enough. Not when I can see the tension in his jaw, the curve of his wrist as he grips the edge of his tablet, the dark heat in his eyes when I cross my legs and the hem of my coat parts just slightly.
We don’t speak. We don’t have to. There’s a language in this silence… each glance a sentence, each breath a paragraph. And when our legs brush under the table, he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I go back to pretending I’m reading the agenda when he ends the call and leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “We’re meeting the client at seven. Restaurant’s a few blocks from the hotel. They like to keep it off-site, more casual.”
“Got it.” I nod, feeling suddenly too warm in my coat.
He glances at the clock on the wall behind me. “We’ll land around five. Gives you time to settle in.”
We land fifteen minutes early. I don’t say another word as we deplane and slide into the waiting car.
The hotel suite is… something else.
It’s the kind of room I’d expect to see in a movie about a woman having a wildly inappropriate affair with a billionaire. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline, a marble bathroom stocked with full-size La Mer, and a king-sized bed with sheets that look like they’ve never known a wrinkle. Even the air feels expensive.
I wheel my bag inside, shut the door, and lock it behind me with a click. There’s a moment where I just stand there, hand still on the doorknob, unsure of what I’m waiting for. A sign? A reason not to follow through on what I already know I’m going to do?
But I don’t need a sign. I already brought the damn dress.
I cross the room and unzip my suitcase, pulling it out like I’m unsheathing a weapon. The black silk slip is soft as sin, dangerously low in the back, and tight enough across the hips to make sitting feel like an invitation. It’s not the kind of thing you wear to talk about market integration and vertical alignment.
It’s the kind of thing you wear when you want a man to lose his mind.
I step into it anyway, slide on the dress, and let it hug every curve I’ve spent years trying to hide behind sarcasm and safety. Tonight, I don’t want to be safe. I want to be wanted.
I fix my makeup, lining my lips with a soft brick-red that looks like trouble. My hair’s already curled from this morning, but I tease it just enough to give it that perfectly undone look that saysI’m not trying too hard, I just woke up sexy.
By the time I slip into my nude heels and glance at the clock, it’s six forty. Twenty minutes before we’re supposed to meet the clients. Plenty of time. I grab my clutch, spritz perfume over the curve of my collarbone, and do one last turn in the full-length mirror.
The reflection that looks back at me isn’t nervous. I know how I look in this dress. I know the looks I’ll get when I remove my blazer after the client meeting. And that’s exactly what I intend to do, but not before I let Reece get a glimpse of me in it before so he can sit through the entire meeting knowing exactly what’s underneath my professional exterior.
When the knock comes, I don’t jump. I walk across the suite and open the door like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
Reece stands on the other side, dressed in a dark-gray suit that looks tailored to every inch of his long, lean frame. His shirt is open at the collar now, no tie. His jacket’s unbuttoned, his hands in his pockets, and for a moment, we both just… stare.
His eyes drag over me unflinching, from my freshly painted toes up the length of my bare legs, pausing at my hips, my waist, my chest. But when his eyes meet mine, they go dark.
“You’re not wearing that to a client meeting.”
I tilt my head. “Excuse me?”
“Change. Hurry up.” He glances at his watch and nods toward my still-open door.
“I’m not changing; I have a blazer.” I lean inside the door to grab the blazer and slide it up my arms, buttoning it so that it conceals just how devastating I look in this dress.
He rubs his jaw roughly, his eyes focused on me again. “Fine,” he grunts, “but leave that jacket on.”
“Or what?”
