Page 82 of Twisted Control

I freeze.

Of course they noticed. A man slipping into a dressing room with a client? Pure gossip fuel.

Drew doesn’t miss a beat. He smoothly tugs my zipper down a few inches, then parts the curtain.

“Zipper got stuck,” he says, sounding perfectly calm and professional. “She needed a hand.”

“The service in here is abysmal,” I add, playing along. Then, for good measure, I snap to Drew, “Now get out.”

He steps out and lets the curtain fall closed.

Before I can even exhale, the assistant’s voice drifts over, sickeningly sweet.

“Aren’t you strong,” she practically purrs. “We actually have some heavy boxes in the back. Would you mind helping me with them?”

“Sure,” Drew replies.

When I finally emerge from the dressing room, Drew is behind the counter effortlessly stacking boxes. The sales assistant is standing far too close to him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and giving him her best come-hither smile.

“Aren’t you strong,” she coos. “We actually have so many more boxes in the back. Would you mind helping me with those too?”

“He’s busy,” I say sweetly, dropping the emerald dress onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.

The assistant’s smile disappears instantly. She scans the tag with obvious irritation. “Four thousand.”

I reach for my purse, but Drew’s card is already sliding across the counter before I can even open my wallet. The machine beeps cheerfully as it processes the payment.

“Your father’s card,” he says calmly. (He does not have my father’s card. He’s just covering for the assistant’s sake.)

She boxes up the dress, flashing Drew one last bright, flirty smile as she hands him the bag. To me, she offers nothing but a tight, irritated look.

The second we’re outside on the sidewalk and safely out of earshot, I whisper, “Drew, it’s four thousand dollars.”

“Thank you would be nice,” he says, unfazed. “I meant what I said. I can take care of you.”

“And how much does security pay?” I ask.

“I’m specialised,” he says with a small shrug. “High-risk clients. Private contracts. It adds up fast when the jobs are right.”

I stare at him. “How much?”

“Well, your dad’s paying thirty a week.”

I nearly trip over my own feet. “Thirty thousand dollars…a week? My allowance is only twenty thousand a month.”

Drew laughs softly, clearly entertained. “Looks like I could take better care of you than Daddy,” he says with a teasing smirk.

We slide into his car, and the silence that follows feels heavier than usual.

After a minute, he glances over. “So what happens when I’m done with this job?”

Oh God.

“Then you’re done,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“And what are we then?”

“What we are now,” I reply. “Friends.”