Page 202 of Playing With Fire

“It’s our fancy evening.” His hands pause. “And yeah, let’s avoid any trips to the hospital if possible.”

“Although I'm sure you'd look very handsome carrying me into the ER.”

Bishop glances up. “Again, you mean?”

My cheeks warm. “Okay, that was one time.”

Of course he would remember that. A busted knee and a sprained ankle thanks to my figure skating attempts.

“Pretty memorable time.”

“I was going for unforgettable.”

“Mission accomplished when you tried that double axel or whatever it was called on Morgan’s Pond that winter.” He smiles up at me, and his dimples make their grand entrance.

“I blame you and Declan.”

“I blame the Winter Olympics.”

He finishes the second buckle, rises, and offers me his hand.

I take it.

And when I stand, I realize the heels put me several inches closer to his mouth.

He notices, too.

“Walk for me.”

I stare at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Want to make sure you're not going to break your neck.”

“Oh-kay.” The way his eyes are glued to me, as I take a few careful steps across the foyer, makes me think he has an ulterior motive.

The skirt moves beautifully, the lace brushing against my legs while the tiny train whispers over the floor. The shoes are surprisingly comfortable. Which is good, considering the boutique off Michigan Avenue practically required me to promise I'd give them a loving home.

Avery had pulled the dress from the rack. I'd taken one look at the price tag and put it back. Then she'd reminded me it was designer resale, not a marriage proposal, and practically shoved me into the fitting room.

Black lace overlays a warm nude lining, giving the illusion of bare skin without showing much. The strapless corset bodice is covered in delicate beadwork, and the fitted waist flows into a soft, flared skirt with just enough ruffling and a short train to feel romantic.

Like something a Regency heroine might wear if she suddenly found herself invited to a very expensive modern-day ball. Except with considerably more cleavage.

“You like it?” I ask.

Bishop doesn't answer immediately. Then he reaches for my hand.

“Becks, you look beautiful.” There's no teasing in his voice.

No crooked smile.

Just the words.

And somehow, that makes them harder to accept.

“Thank you.”