Page 26 of All Mixed Up

One step closer to living my life in reality instead of stupidity.

Which was why things with Lucien were better this way.

Did I have real feelings for him? I clutched at my chest as if that answer was threatening to burst from it. And that answer was absolutely yes. “Feelings” hardly qualified this pull we had, like two planets birthed by the cosmos to orbit each other. When we were together, everything inside me was shattered, only to be pieced back together the right way. My scales were balanced. My harmonies were aligned. Only one other element in my life produced the same feeling. Mixing music.

Lucien. Lucien. Lucien.

He could be music too…

I dropped my hand. Shook my head, letting the reverie fall away, the blinders fall off. The feelings, stuffed back into their safe box.

So, yeah. This contract was a damn good idea, after all.

I read over the stipulations. They were all there as we’d laid them out yesterday morning—even the last one, to which I’d capitulated in a moment of weakness after Lucien pleaded his cause with a sultry look.

Miss Darienne will accept and keep any gifts bestowed by Monsieur Paget.

But even after that irresistible stare, I’d pushed back. Gift. It was too broad. It needed subheadings. Lots of subheadings. But the rogue had held firm. Had even gotten back on the bed and stretched out, using his naked magnificence as a damned effective distraction. To this minute I was certain my weakness would return to bite me in the ass, but I was a woman of my word.

Nothing proved me more right than the item inside the second delivered box.

A dress.

A freaking pink dress.

Okay, I wasn’t opposed to dresses. I wore them…upon occasion. I wasn’t even opposed to pink. It was streaked all over my head, after all. But the two, as one? In a garment that belonged at some old-school tea party?

I couldn’t wear this thing in public.

But dammit, that was exactly what the arrogant ass expected me to do. No room for muddled meanings there, when his confident handwriting was put to a note on top of the dress:

You will look magnificent in this.

See you at seven tonight.

L.

At least I could claim some small solace about this. One, we’d be eating early, at least in Parisian terms. Most high-end places didn’t start bustling until after nine but I had to be at Avanti by nine-thirty, then ready to spin by ten. Secondly, he’d only sent the dress. I had complete control about the accessories.

And utilized my power well.

By the time my look was complete, I was actually pretty happy with it. I ignored the tiny stresses that came with wondering if Lucien would agree. Why the hell was I caring about that? I’d wear the damn dress for the man, but I wasn’t about to become his dress-up doll. If he wanted Barbie, he could make a dating contract with her.

So I tried to tell myself, while making my way toward the entryway in response to his firm knock.

After centering myself with a long breath, I tugged the door open.

And lost every molecule of the oxygen I’d just taken in.

I didn’t know what made my heart throb harder: the stunned gaze he raked down, taking in the black and pink glitter stars in my hair, the goth cameo choker at my neck, and the high-heeled combat boots on my feet, or the look that defined him tonight.

Rewind. Rephrase. The look that defined him.

Holy. Crap.

In the most superlative senses of both words.

He was retro class crossed with modern swagger. Clark Gable and Frank Sinatra crossed with David Gandy and Harry Styles. His navy suit was contrasted by a pink shirt that could only be pulled off with a face chiseled in such shameless maleness. His tie was a gorgeous blend of the two shades, and yanked out the hints of cobalt teasing at the back of his gaze. But overall, the best thing about the suit was its cut. His buff shoulders…his endless legs…his incredible ass…I didn’t know what part of him was hugged best by the custom fit, and was ecstatic I’d have a few hours in which to figure it out.