“You’re kidding.” I press the pads of my fingers into my temples. What the hell was Bea thinking?

“Yeah, you’re right. I thought to myself, why not wear something outrageously uncomfortable and revealing to dinner just for laughs. I thought you wanted me to wear this. I thought maybe it was some form of punishment.”

“Not just for you,” I mutter under my breath.

She motions to her chest. “I can barely breathe and I spent twenty minutes adjusting my boobs in this damn thing!”

My eyes immediately drop to Chloe’s chest. The top of her dress is tight which pushes her breasts up, exposing generous cleavage. Her hair is pulled back away from her face, creating an unobstructed view. She looks hot. There’s no point in denying that, but her outfit would do better at a night club, not a dinner at an upscale restaurant. It’s incredibly short which is wild because Chloe is so petite. Bea must be out of practice. There haven’t been many women in my life to pick clothing out for.

I’m regretting not picking her up at her apartment. There’s no way to change her outfit now, so we have to go with it. Chloe pulls on the dress hem for the fifth time.

“Stop fidgeting. You look fine,” I assure her, stealing another glance. More than fine. She looks fucking delectable. And distracting. Which makes me second guess this whole arrangement. But, there’s no backing out now, we’re minutes away from walking into the restaurant.

“I hope you didn’t strain yourself giving me that compliment,” she says.

I reach for her hand and start walking toward the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’s with the hand holding?” she asks, rushing to keep up with my longer stride.

“It’s so you don’t run away.”

Chloe hums in disapproval, but doesn’t fight me on it.

“Thank you for the champagne last night,” she says softly.

“It was nothing,” I say.

“It was something.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. Hell, I don’t know why I did it. When I reached the car and directed Marcus home, I found myself pulling out my phone and making the call. I don’t want to analyze it.

“Who are we having dinner with?” she asks.

“A business associate, Fred Hinkle, and his girlfriend, Frankie.”

“Frankie’s a girl? I thought it would be two old guys and I’d be the little lady to keep all your gentlemanly manners intact.”

“This isn’t a regency novel. It’s two business associates having dinner with their girlfriends.”

Chloe halts suddenly, our arms pull taut, but my forward momentum causes her heels to skitter against the concrete.

“Girlfriend? You said it was a date.”

I continue walking, and with a stutter step, she falls back into stride beside me.

“Pretend it’s one of many that we’ve been on.”