Page 50 of Not You Again
At the bottom of one of the bags is an envelope with my name on it, written in Kit’s confident block letters.
I pop it open and pull out the thick card stock with his company letterhead at the top.
It doesn’t make up for me missing the class last night, but we’ll always have Paris.
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. It’s not a declaration of love, but it is enough food for a few days.
I tuck all the food I’m not going to eat today into the fridge and stare at the now-bare dress form as I rearrange numbers in my head. Kit doesn’t know it, but his large offering today just bought me the slimmest margin of breathing room. If I can stretch these meals out to last a week, I can afford to pay the fee for Fashion Week.
I smile wider at Kit’s handwriting as I dig in.
The next couple of weeks pass by in a blur of dress forms, sketches, and meals sent to my loft to make sure I eat. Suddenly we’re halfway through filming, with only four weeks left until D-Day. I told Kit not to get used to it, but I steam his clothes in the morning as a silent thank you for taking care of my hands every night.
He let me sleep in this morning, waking me up with a large mug of coffee on my nightstand. He’s already dressed for work.
“I have to go,” he whispers, brushing some hair out of my face. Are there cameras here already? “I have a meeting this morning I can’t be late for.”
His touch is casual but so intimate it sends heat curling down my spine. I’m used to him touching my hands now. This is altogether different and not entirely unwelcome. Bleary-eyed, I roll out of bed, asking him to wait as I straighten my cotton shorts and tank top.
No cameras. Huh.
I feel his gaze on my bare legs as I walk around the bed and duck into the closet. When I emerge, I explain, “If you add a pocket square, it will look like a different suit.”
“I don’t own any pocket squares.” The hint of a smile pulls at his lips.
He looks too good, standing in the morning sunlight that’s streaming in through the curtains. Nothing about this is fair. I shake my head to stop my train of thought as it marches down the buttons on his shirt, willing them to open.
“Here.” I fold the silk square I retrieved from the closet and tuck it into his breast pocket.
As I pluck the fabric until it lays just right, he asks, “Andie, did you get me pocket squares?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I made you some.”
The way his gaze softens makes my cheeks grow warm. I clear my throat and take a step back. “There,” I say like it’s no big deal. “Looks like you belong in a boardroom.”
He tilts his head with an amused look on his face. “It’s a meeting with the contractors for the dome. Dress code is safety vests and hardhats.”
“Oh.” I want to crawl back under the blankets and never come out. “Well. Anyway.”
Kit walks to the closet and pokes his head in. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he reaches behind the door and pulls out the skirt I hung up to wear today. He looks between the garment and his chest until I see it.
They’re the same fabric. I made his pocket squares out of leftovers from some of the clothes I made for myself. “I’m sorry,” I groan, crossing the room and reaching for the fabric I tucked into his pocket. “You can wear another one. Or none at all. It’s fine.”
He covers his chest with his hand so I can’t take the pocket square off him. “The hell I will, sweet potato.”
My eyes shoot to his in a glare, and I steel my jaw. I really should be used to the pet name by now.
His half grin is teasing, his eyes warm. “I like that we’ll match today.”
“I’ll wear a different skirt.”
I reach for it, but he holds it above my head. The warmth in his eyes turns hot, an open flame for anyone to see. “No, you won’t.”
My lips part in a silent gasp. That was almost … possessive. The heat swirling in my gut and sinking lower tells me I like it. When I narrow my eyes, he says, “Be my good luck charm today. Please. It’ll be our secret.”
His words are light, nonchalant. But the look in his eyes screams, you’re mine. My hand shaking as desire curls between my legs, I reach for the skirt. Kit surrenders it. Just when I think he’s done, he leans over, close enough that I’m wrapped up in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, and whispers, “Good girl.”
He’s gone before the wave of heat crashes over me, leaving me hungry and cold as I sit on the edge of our shared bed.