Page 42 of Desperate Crimes
I really fucking love it.
And I—I want to stay.
I walk over to the bench beneath the black roses and sit.
And for just a minute, I let myself pretend that this place—the garden, the tree, the roses, and the lights—wasn’t built by a stranger in the dark.
I let myself pretend it was a gift from someone who cares about me.
Someone who loves me.
And since I’m confessing, I really want that.
A person of my own.
A love that borders on obsession.
Even if that love might ruin me.
I back out of the magical room, back into the bedroom and catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.
The dress I wore to the premiere still clings to my body, too tight now that the adrenaline has drained away.
My strapless bra is digging into my ribs.
The silk is bunched in all the wrong places, riding up my thighs, clinging to my stomach.
I look like a hostage at a fashion shoot. And not in a cute, high-glam sort of way.
I’m not built for lounging in couture.
Not like the girls in the magazines.
I’ve always been more. Curvier. Softer. Bigger.
It’s not a secret, and I’m not ashamed—not really—but I also know my limits.
And one of them is sleeping in this damn dress.
I make my way into the bathroom, half-expecting to find nothing but cold tile and sterile nothingness.
Instead?
There’s a pale pink silk robe hanging from a gold hook near the vanity.
It’s delicate. Soft. Gorgeous.
And it’s big. My size.
I hesitate.
It’s foolish, I know. Creepy as hell, honestly. Someone—he—prepared this.
Like he knew I’d want out of that dress.
Like he knew I’d need something to wrap around myself to feel safe.
Still, I can’t stop my fingers from reaching for it.
