IN THE MORNINGS, Jamie Streicher is warm, sleepy, and sexy as hell. He wakes me up with his lips on my neck, pressing soft kisses there as his hands roam my body. I pull back to see him smiling, so relaxed and at ease.
I love seeing him like this.
His gaze falls to my mouth, and there’s an aching throb between my legs as lust flares in his gaze. His hair is unruly from bedhead, his eyes are puffy from sleep, and dark stubble spans his jawline. I can imagine exactly how that stubble would feel against my inner thighs.
In bed like this, Jamie Streicher looks supremely fuckable. Jamie’s hand tangles in my hair and he pulls my mouth to his, letting out a hum against my lips that sounds like relief.
“Let’s have a shower,” he whispers, and I nod.
Minutes later, under the hot spray, Jamie makes me come with his fingers buried inside me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as I start to tip, gasping into his chest, clenching up around him. “Ride my hand, songbird. Ride it out.”
When I’m done, he reaches for the condom he left on the windowsill beside the shower, turns me around, puts my hands on the shower tiles, and pushes inside me. He’s a bit too much for me, but it sends waves of heat through my body as we come undone together.
“I can’t get enough of you.” His words are a desperate whisper in my ear, and I flutter with happy, sated warmth.
I feel the same way.
Jamie insists on washing my hair, massaging my scalp in slow, firm, drugging movements.
“How’s this?”
“I’m a puddle,” I tell him, eyes closed, melting as he works the muscles at the back of my neck. His low laugh makes me smile.
“Good.”
I could get used to this. I could get used to this so hard.
“Remind me why I need to eat breakfast sitting in your lap?” I ask, turning to Jamie between sips of coffee. Daisy’s eating her breakfast, I’m reading news from the music industry, and Jamie’s watching old game tape against Calgary. They have another game tonight, which is why he has the morning off, and I know he’s antsy about playing Rory again.
“It’s good for you,” he lies, giving my hip a squeeze.
“Good for you, you mean,” I laugh, and he rewards me with one of those sweet kisses on my temple.
We eat in content silence for a few minutes before his hand rubs across my back.
“Any word from Ivy?”
“Nope.” The first few days, I checked my email incessantly, but being on edge constantly was exhausting, and now I only check a few times a day. “That’s okay, though,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. “I’m just happy I did it. I can’t control what happens on her side, but if she was interested, others could be, too.”
Jamie watches me, listening.
I shrug and smile to myself. “I’m proud of myself for doing it. It was hard and scary, but I did it.”
“You did.” His tone is pleased as he tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I’m proud of you, too.” He glances at the time on his phone. “We should get going.”
I send him a curious look. “Go where?”
He grins. “To buy your dress for the gala.”
The tiny store is empty when we arrive except for a woman in her forties with a dark pixie cut and a big smile. From the outside, the shop appears modest, with just one dress artfully arranged in the window, but inside, jaw- dropping gowns cascade from the ceiling, adorned with feathers, sequins, beading. Some dresses are simple, with flowing, smooth fabric. Some are works of art, with thousands of tiny flower buds sewn onto their skirts. One has a neckline that goes to the navel, and that dress scares me.
“Welcome,” the woman says, striding toward us. “You must be Pippa.”
She introduces herself as Miranda, the owner. “Jamie, can you please lock the door?” she asks. At my confused look, she explains, “Your gentleman has requested we have the shop to ourselves this morning.”
Jamie winks at me. When he said he wanted to buy me a dress, I thought I’d go by myself and buy it on the card he gave me. I didn’t expect this.
“Every dress is unique and special.” Miranda’s eyes sparkle. Her voice has this lovely calm energy, like when Hazel’s teaching yoga, and I immediately feel at ease here. “Shall we find a dress as beautiful as you?”
I blush and give her a quick nod. She leads me into the back, where a mirrored area is curtained off with thick red velvet. A brown leather couch sits outside the changing area. A few dresses hang, waiting for me. One catches my eye—a blue-gray piece, a few shades darker than my eye color. Dark, moody flowers flow down the skirt, giving the illusion that they’re pouring out of the bodice. On the hanger, it’s hard to tell the dress’s shape, but the rich colors glow under the store’s warm lighting.
Miranda has pulled a few dresses that she thought might suit me and the event, so Jamie takes a seat on the couch while I step into the dressing room and slip my clothes off. She pops in from time to time to add clips to adjust the sizing, help me with a zip, or help me out of a gown, but nothing feels quite right.
I save the blue dress for last, but the second I slip it over my head, I know.
The fabric is soft against my skin, and something about the weight of the dress feels divine. In the mirror, I study the details, the bold slices of color, the delicate shape. This dress. The bodice is velvet, and when Miranda zips me up, it’s a perfect fit. The giant flowers make me feel pretty, special, and happy. This dress is an elevated version of the one I wore to the
wrap party. Miranda leaves the dressing room, and my heart bursts with excitement as I think about walking into the gala in this dress with Jamie.
“Pippa?” Jamie’s low voice comes from outside on the couch. “Show me.”
I slip out, and the second he sees me, his gaze flashes with heat. I’m suddenly shy, but I can’t ignore the sparks skittering over my skin as he takes me in. Miranda is nowhere to be seen, giving us space.
“I like this one,” I say lightly.
He stares for a moment longer before closing his eyes, like he’s sobering himself. “Fuck,” he mutters, adjusting himself. “Pippa.” He says it like a curse.
I chuckle. “What?”
His gaze is back on me in the dress, and his jaw tenses as he stands up. My heart flutters as he walks over to me, gaze locked on mine, before he presses a soft, loving kiss to my lips.
I can’t get a full breath, and my head is spinning. “You’re beautiful,” he says quietly.
I smile up at him. “You make me feel beautiful.”
He looks at me like there are a thousand kind, loving things he wants to say. But instead, he just smiles. “Good.” He glances pointedly down at my dress. “Do you want this dress?”
“How much does it cost?” I ask first.
He snorts and shakes his head with amusement. “Tell me,” I insist.
“No.” His eyes are full of laughter, and a smile lifts on that mouth I used to think was cruel. “Do you want this dress?” he asks again.
The guitar already cost so much money, and now this? I’m torn.
“Pippa.” He dips his head to catch my eyes, and his fingers come to my chin, tilting my face up to his. “I don’t think you understand.” His eyes are steady, warm, kind, and serious. “Anything you want, songbird? It’s yours. Where you’re concerned, money is no object, because making you happy is worth it.”
I shouldn’t love this. I’m not a material person, and money isn’t important.
Jamie being generous and wanting to please me, though? It makes me melt.
“I’m buying you the dress, and you’re not going to argue. I’m going to buy you more things, and you won’t argue about those, either.” His eyes hold mine. “Okay?”
I nod wordlessly, trying not to smile at his satisfied, possessive expression. Bliss—I think that’s what this feeling is called.
“Good.” He steals a kiss before returning to the couch, and for the thousandth time, I admire how he moves with such power and grace. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of that. He tilts his chin at the change room. “Now go change so I can take you for lunch.”
I smother a smile. Miranda pops back in to mark and pin alterations before helping me out of the dress. I’m tying my sneakers up when my phone pings with an email. It could be Ivy Matthews, so I check it, but when I see who sent the message, my stomach drops.
Can we talk? I texted you but I think you changed your number.
My hands shake, gripping the phone as I read his message over and over again.
“Pippa?” Jamie’s low voice travels through the curtain. “You okay?”
I realize that I’ve been in here for a while. How long have I been staring at his message, frozen? My throat knots as I swallow. I’m still shaking with anger.
“Can I come in?”
It’s like he can sense when I’m upset. “Yes,” I say quietly.
He steps into the small space. “What’s going on?”
His voice is so caring, so concerned, that I just break.
“Zach emailed me,” I tell him, showing him the phone. Anger and resentment tear through me, and I blow a frustrated breath out. “He texted me the day you got back from traveling but I blocked him.” My heart pounds as Jamie glares at the phone, reading the message. “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t know why he’s messaging me.” I shake my head hard. “I don’t want this.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I blocked him. I thought he’d go away.” I suck in a deep breath, trying to shove all this Zach-related anger away, but it doesn’t work. “It was the day before I recorded with Ivy. I just wanted to forget him and focus.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I understand that.” He turns his full attention to me. “You can tell me about this stuff. We can figure it out together.”
I look up at him, and his eyes search mine with worry. “I know.” I grab my phone, open my email, and block his email address. “There,” I tell Jamie with a firm nod. “We’ll have to keep the windows closed in case he tries carrier pigeon next.”
A sharp laugh scrapes out of his throat, and he drops a quick kiss onto my cheek before we go settle up with Miranda. Neither of them will tell me how much the dress costs, and Miranda and I set a time for me to pick the dress up after the alterations are finished.
As Jamie and I thank her and say goodbye, she leans in. “Undergarments will be included with the dress.” She winks conspiratorially, and I give her a funny smile. Miranda’s lovely, but I’m not sure if I want her to buy me underwear.
After lunch, we head home so Jamie can nap before the game, and I text with Hazel about the event in Whistler. As part of the team, she’s going, too.
Uh. We have a problem, she texts me. I just saw the guest list.
???, I respond. Last I checked, they were still finalizing it.
Forwarded you the email. They’re still trying to sell the last tables.
Table 16 is going to be an issue.
My email pings. That familiar nausea rises when I see who’s sitting at Table 16.
Zach Hanson.
