The assistant appears from the fitting room, her lips straight as she slinks behind the cash desk, avoiding my accusing glare. Okay, I can pull this back. Play reasonable. Get her on side, and then think about how to deal with the dress once we’re friends again. I take a needed hit of air as I pass the cash desk, looking out the corner of my eye to the assistant, who’s fiddling with some tissue paper. “I want you to tell her it doesn’t suit her,” I say, and she swings a startled look my way. “And in return, I’ll buy all your stock.”

“Seriously?” she questions.

“Deadly.”

I leave her with that and enter the fitting room, and my eyes cross the second I clap eyes on Ava in front of the mirror, the cream silk clinging to every curve it touches, and it doesn’t touch much. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I murmur, my eyes glued to her long, willowy legs. My hands go to my hair. Tugs. She looks fucking incredible. A deity. My fucking savior and, dressed like this, my downfall. I take a few steps, fighting to reason with myself. She’s mine. She wants to be mine. This young, fresh beauty in a showstopper dress is in love with me. Me. Not so young. Not so fresh. Although, admittedly, I’m feeling younger and fresher these days. All her.

I look at her amused face. She’s mine, yes, and wants to be, but that won’t stop people trying to take her away from me. And in this dress, those chances are multiplied by a million.

“You’re not . . .” I murmur, waving a finger up and down her body, “you . . . you can’t . . .” It’s too short. Way too short. I’ll be up for murder. I need to make her understand, but as I look at her, defiance and willfulness etched across her beautiful face, I just know reasoning isn’t going to work. “Ava . . . baby . . .” I take another look down the dress, and my cock, the traitor, swells. “Oh, I can’t look at you.” I remove myself from the dressing room before I pass out. Or jump her. I’m hot. Suffocating.

I pass the sales assistant and glare at her, dropping my hand from the front of my jeans. “Remember?” I ask, as she disappears into the changing room to join Ava.

“The dress looks incredible,” I hear her sing, and I slap my forehead as I head for the door, needing air. But I’m slowed to a stop by a wall of shoes, in particular a pair of skyscraper stilettos. How on God’s green earth do women walk in those ankle breakers? I pluck one from the shelf and study it, mentally measuring the height of the heel. Seven inches. Seven inches! Nearly as long as my cock.