Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I manage, despite the lump of nerves in my throat.
“Well, you look amazing.” Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, braided around the crown. “Your gown is flawless. Is it one of yours?”
I nod, surprised she knows.
“Mr. Whitney mentioned you’re a designer. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Davenport rests a hand on his wife’s shoulder in an ushering gesture and nods toward the dinner guests on the other side of the room. He guides us through the crowd, weaving between diamonds and tuxedos, until we reach a table where a couple is already seated.
“I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Channing and his wife, Kayla,” he announces.
The dark-haired man stands in greeting, his eyes a startling shade of blue that catches me off guard. For the briefest moment, I think of Sebastian.
Then the thought is gone, swallowed by another round of handshakes and pleasantries.
I take my seat beside Kayla, Oliver settling next to me, and ignore the chilled glass of white wine at my place. I’m not about to touch it—not after what happened in Los Angeles.
The men begin discussing overseas investments, accounting issues, and a kind of restructuring talk that sounds too coded to be about business. I’m only half-listening when Kayla leans in, the chandelier threading glints of red through her auburn hair.
“How are you enjoying your visit to the States?”
“I’m still recovering from jet lag,” I admit, nudging the wine aside with a quiet scrape of glass on linen. “We arrived late last night, but I spent most of the day in my suite.”
“Time zones can be brutal. Do you have plans to see the city while you’re here?”
“Oliver promised to take me sightseeing before we return home.”
“Portland has beautiful gardens,” Virginia cuts in.
Kayla nods. “The coast is breathtaking too, even during the winter.”
A female server approaches, wine bottle in hand. She looks close to my age, younger than the wives at the table, with her blond hair swept up in a classy twist.
“More wine, sir?” Her voice drops to a honeyed whisper, fingers lingering on Mr. Davenport’s shoulder.
“Please,” he answers with a wide smile as she bends to refill his glass, offering a view down the front of her dress shirt. She rounds the table, paying special attention to the men, radiating flirtation and sugary perfume.
The blonde reaches Kayla’s husband last. “You’re looking empty, sir.” Brushing against him, she tips the bottle with a teasing glance.
Kayla’s shoulders tense. “Careful, sweetie. You’re pouring my husband’s wine, not auditioning your cleavage.”
The server straightens, but it’s Mr. Channing’s expression that pulls my attention. His blue gaze narrows at his wife, subtle disapproval making her face flame. She snaps her mouth shut and stares at her lap.
Virginia lets out a practiced laugh. “Our staff is always so attentive, isn’t that right, darling?” She places her hand over her husband’s, and he nods, clearly entertained.
When the server reaches Oliver, he traces the condensation on his full glass. “I’m good, thank you.”
I take in the dynamics, the subtle tension undercutting smiles and sips of wine—power and performance, masked by charm.
By the time the first course arrives, conversation is in swing again, but the energy has shifted. Partway through the meal, Gage leans close to Kayla and whispers something in her ear that makes her cheeks flush as scarlet as my nails. Whatever he said, it wasn’t praise for her territorial display.
Kayla swallows hard, but her composure recovers as she turns back to me. “I hear you’re a designer.”
She catches me mid-bite, so all I can do is nod.
“Talented and royal,” Mr. Davenport says, his interested gaze following the movement of my fork. “What a fascinating combination.”
Oliver finds my knee under the table, and his possessive gesture sends a delicious shiver up my spine. His thumb traces a slow circle, dragging silk and lustful memories along with it. Desperate for a distraction, I change my mind about the wine and reach for my glass, hoping to douse the fire he so easily stirs.
Halfway through, I regret taking the first sip.
A flush spreads over my cheeks, the air suddenly too warm. When I glance his way, I find his knowing eyes already on me.
Oliver stands, and the scrape of his chair draws more than a few glances. Napkins fall. Conversations pause.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he says to our dinner companions. “I believe my date would like a dance.”
I set my glass down and rise, legs tingling from wine, want, and anticipation. He offers me a hand, his expression magnetic, desire the gravity that pulls me to his side.
Soft classical music lures us to the center of the floor, where couples glide in a sensual cadence. Drawing me flush against him, he slides a palm up my back and guides us into an easy, swaying flow.
At first, neither of us speak.
Our bodies do.
His heat tantalizes me, urging me closer, barely a breath between us. “Oliver?”