Page 85 of Wallflower
Am I going to do it anyway?
Yes.
“Let’s go.”
Chord alerts the driver, and I take a deep breath. The door opens, letting in the din and flashes of the waiting media pack, and Chord steps out first. Cameras flash with more urgency, the hum of the crowd gets louder, and I slide across the seat while Chord buttons his jacket and adjusts his cuffs. Then he turns and stretches out his hand.
I take it and step out of the car, and Chord sets his mouth to my ear. “You’re beautiful. I’m the luckiest man in the world to have you by my side tonight.”
I drop my eyes, and he lifts my chin. “Eyes up, Wallflower.”
Breathing steadily so I don’t lose control, I take Chord’s arm and let him lead me down the red carpet. Other guests are ahead of us, and it’s clear Chord’s done this many times before when he pauses every few steps to let the photographers take pictures from different angles.
“Chord! Chord! Who is your date tonight?” someone shouts.
“Violet James,” Chord says in a voice pitched loud enough to carry.
“Violet! Violet!” another person calls. “Who are you wearing tonight?”
“I—” I clear my throat and try to raise my voice, but my mouth is dry, and my heart is racing, and I’m not sure anyone hears me when I say, “I’m wearing a Violet James original.”
The cameras flash again, and Chord squeezes my hand as he turns his face away from the cameras and whispers in my ear, “I’ve been dreaming about the way you taste, Wallflower. I can’t wait for the day I make you come on my tongue.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks and between my legs, and Chord sweeps a careful knuckle along my jaw. I gaze up at him, and the cameras go wild when his face breaks into a grin. “You looked a little pale there for a minute, and you’re so pretty when you blush.”
“Chord! Chord!” A photographer leans over the media rope and waves his arm to move Chord down the carpet. “Can we get a few shots of Violet alone?”
“Will you be okay?” he murmurs.
Warmth that feels a little like adrenaline shoots through my veins. “Yes. Thank you.”
He kisses my hand and backs away, then watches with crossed arms and satisfaction as I pose for the cameras.
The lights and the noise aren’t what I’m used to, but Chord’s strong, solid presence makes it possible for me to smile and turn my body as directed. Nerves aside, I’ve lived a fairytale today. The makeover. The car. The jewelry. Victoria Hall. This dress.My dress.
Chord.
For so many reasons, I finally feel enough.
He returns to my side for one last round of pictures, then loops my arm into the crook of his elbow. We make it to the end of thered carpet just outside the venue doors, and Chord pauses, turns his broad back to the cameras, and kisses me.
“You were magnificent,” he says.
Tonight, I can believe him. “Thank you.”
“And now that the hard part is over, we can enjoy the night.” He yanks me against him with a hand on my lower back, and his eyes grow hot. “Or a couple of hours, at least. I don’t think I can be a gentleman much longer than that.”
I bite my lip and curl my fingers into the muscled arms trapped beneath his suit, trying to tell him without words how I want this night to end.I need your mouth, I think.Your hands. Your tongue. More. All of you. Everything.And I’m feeling confident and beautiful and brave enough to say it, but then a limo pulls up at the other end of the red carpet, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Chord frowns. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s—”
With a curious smile, he glances back over his shoulder. Every muscle in Chord’s body tenses in an instant, and he miraculously gains two inches of height.
It’s the man who ruined everything for Chord in Calgary. His rival, Spencer Cook.
Chord takes my hand and grips it hard enough that I cover it with my other, cradling his fingers in mine.
