Page 59 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He’s a statue everywhere else—jaw tight, shoulders square—but that finger? It’s sending a distress signal in Morse code.
What’s got him wound so tight? The business? Fiona? Or maybe… me?
BWONNNNGGGGGGGG!
The sound vibrates through my bones like a church bell, making me jump so violently, I nearly lose a shoe.
“Holy shitballs!”
“Language, Pip,” Bryce grumbles under his breath.
I spin to see Nigel standing beside an enormous bronze gong, his white-gloved hand still gripping the mallet. He’s now wearing an even more formal tuxedo with tails that makes the previous one look casual. His silver hair shellacked in place, expression as frozen as a wax figure.
“Esteemed guests,” he announces in his crisp British accent, “dinner is served.”
Two men also dressed in black tuxedos part the towering double doors.
Bryce catches my elbow as Gavin and Fiona sweep into the dining room like they’re on a red carpet.I try to follow, but his grip gently holds me back.
“A moment, please,” he says quietly.
“Can we not? Whatever lecture you’re dying to give me, shove it in a Tiffany bag and deliver it later.”
“That’s not my intention. The back of your dress is undone.”
I twist, fumbling behind me like a feral raccoon pawing at a snack bag, and yeah. My spine is… out. Exposed. Back door open. Peekaboo hour at Casa Cashmere.
“Turn around,” he says firmly.
My brain does a full somersault.
Becauseoh hell no.Those two words shouldn’t be that hot. But they are. They are panty-melting, command-me-Daddy levels of hot.
I should punch him. But instead, I obey and turn.
Big mistake. Huge.
Because I’m weak. Because I hate the way I want him to see my back. My ink. My skin. All the pieces of me that sayI’m not who you think I am—but also,I wish I was good enough to be who you want.
I stare at a sconce on the wall as though it’s the only thing anchoring me to this dimension.
Behind me, Bryce moves—measured, deliberate.
My breath catches as he finesses the tiny hook-and-eye, knuckles brushing the bare skin between my shoulder blades. His hands are infuriatingly warm, annoyingly gentle, and way too restrained. My skin prickles. My stomach flips. Every nerve sings, like maybe he wants to rip this dress off, not fix it.
This is not foreplay, Petra. He’s simply being helpful. A gentleman.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m allergic to you,” I snap.
“Your tattoo here. Are these wildflowers?” he says, his finger tracing the floral design along my shoulder blade, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“Look at you, Moneybags, knowing your roadside weeds.”
He leans in and whispers against my ink. “I like them.”
