“Oh my God, are we staying? How’d you arrange this?” she asks.

“It’s fun, right?” I smile brilliantly, not wanting to give away my unease.

As the women sip champagne and dance around our private space, I glance back down at the card Veronica had given to me. I think I might have sold my soul to the devil.

6. Barrett

CHAPTER 6

Barrett

This is not my style. I hate not having all the details planned out, but I got myself into this mess and the only way out is through it. A date night with Fred and Frankie with Chloe by my side.

I’m waiting down the street from the restaurant when my driver, Marcus, pulls up. My office is a few blocks away and since I was working there all afternoon, I directed him to pick Chloe up and meet me a short distance away from the restaurant. I want it to appear that Chloe and I arrived together.

He gets out to open the door to the back seat, but the door opens on its own. A set of legs, from ankle to mid-thigh, come into view. I recognize them instantly. I tell myself it’s because I know Chloe is in the car, not because I have the shape of her legs memorized.

It rained earlier, the warm June day giving way to a cooler evening. At my desk, I’d watched the rain drops fall on the city and briefly wondered what Chloe and her friends visiting the city were up to. But I refused to feel guilty about taking her away from them for the evening. There was no way I was going to change plans with Fred.

She slides out of the vehicle with a helping hand from Marcus. My jaw drops at the sight of her. Chloe has no jacket on her bare arms. That’s not the only thing that is bare. Her dress is black, short and tight.

“What the hell are you wearing?” My eyes scan her up and down. It’s a feast, and the delicacy is Chloe’s smooth, creamy skin.

Finding Chloe at my mother’s apartment had been a surprise, but seeing Chloe across the room, looking like a fucking dream in a short, sparkly dress that accentuated her toned legs, curvy hips and full breasts, her hair in loose waves around her bare shoulders. She looked nothing like the cardigan-wearing, bun-sporting Chloe I’ve seen before.

Her in that dress was all I thought about last night when I lay in bed, one hand around my cock, and now here she is dressed like a bombshell, scattering my brain when I need to focus on Fred.

“A dress.” She motions to the length of said dress.

“Where’s the rest of it?” I growl.

“This is all there is.”

“Bea sent over a dress, why didn’t you wear it?”

“This is the dress Bea sent over,” she argues.