Stella

Just my luck! The conservatory’s gorgeous—three stories of gleaming glass and wrought metal, housing a tropical jungle—but it’s also deserted. Well, apart from the birds. And the fish. This place isn’t just pretty: it’s incredible. A winding stream widens into a glassy pond. Heavy moss hangs from the branches of ancient trees—how’d they get those in here? Did they build the place around them, or uproot them from somewhere else? A flagstone path wends its way through the vegetation, lit by mellow stone lanterns.

I should get back to the party. Jack’s clearly not here, and I’m running out of time.

Then again, there’s a bench nestled just beyond the reflecting pool. I could take a second, get off my feet. I haven’t sat down since I got here, and that toenail’s driving me insane.

Five minutes, then.

There’s a faint rustle as I step onto the bridge. I look up just in time to see a section of wisteria settle back into place. So he is here. Hiding in the bushes like a little boy, waiting to...what? Jump out and say ‘boo’? Trip me as I walk by? Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll go away.

Fat chance of that.

I keep walking. He waits till the last possible moment to step into my path, timing it so I nearly collide with him. All the breath goes out of me at once. I was expecting him to pop out, but I didn’t anticipate his sheer physical presence. He’s...he’s—

“You’re taller than I thought.”

Jack steps into my space, steadying me with one massive hand. He’s got to be nearly seven feet tall, beyond imposing. Even in heels, I have to tilt my head to look him in the eye. And he’s huge all over: a solid wall of muscle and sinew. Massive shoulders. Hands like shovels. A chest so broad I could curl up on it.

“And you....” His grin turns into a smirk. He cups my chin in one palm, smears his thumb over my cheek. “You have lipstick on your face.”

“I—” That...wasn’t what I thought he’d say. I fumble for a rejoinder. “My mom’s friend’s out there. She’s a smoocher. That’s what I’m doing here: hiding.” And babbling, apparently.

“Oh, yeah? Who’s your mom’s friend?” He hasn’t taken his hand away. He’s sort of stroking my face, tracing the shape of my cheekbone. It’s distracting—intimate, or maybe threatening. I shouldn’t be letting him this close, giving him the idea he can touch me whenever he wants, take whatever he—

He’s looking at me expectantly.

Oh. Right. He asked me a question. “My mom’s friend...uh, Francesca Lombardi.”

Jack whistles. “Seriously? How’d that happen?”

“We were neighbors, way back when. Her house was three doors from ours. She’s like my aunt.”

Jack shifts closer, drawing himself up. He’s playing with my hair, now, not quite gently, twisting my ringlets around his finger. “So you grew up having milk and cookies with the Harpy of Wall Street.”

Weak coffee and cannoli, actually, but.... “She’s not that bad.”

He thrusts his hand into my hair. It pulls and stings, where it’s twined with his finger. “You’re mine, you know.” He makes a loose fist. My entire scalp tingles, and a chill races down my spine. “My pick, I mean. I get the first year with you.”

Well...that was easy. Maybe. Sort of. I’m trembling all over, hot under my skin. I can smell him, this close: strong soap and Creed Pure White cologne—underneath that, red wine and sweat. He smells almost...edible. I swallow the irrational urge to bite him.

Too close. This is...too close. Too soon. I conjure up a brittle laugh. “What would people think?”

“Do you care?”

No. Yes. My head’s swimming: I feel drunk. I grope for him, meaning to push him away, but he’s so tall—instead of his waist, I find myself manhandling his cock. His very thick, very hard cock. The blood rushes to my face. I let go and turn to flee, but he’s still got my hair.

“Ow!—Damn!”

Jack loosens his grip and I back away, mortified. At least he’s not laughing.

“Well, that was.... Sorry.” Should’ve gone ahead and bitten his shoulder. It’d have come off less desperate.

“Aw. Let me just....” He brushes my hand away where I’m massaging the sting out of my scalp. I cringe, afraid he’s going to humiliate me somehow, but he only kisses the top of my head. “Better?”

“Everything but my ego.”

“I hear that grows back.” Jack pushes the hair off my face, almost fondly. He’s smiling, humor twinkling in his eyes. I don’t resist when he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “Time for you to rejoin the party.”

The party.... “Right. Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

When I don’t move, he gives me a push. It’s not rough—more of a suggestion than a shove—but I can feel his strength, coiled and waiting.

“We meet at Coney Island, a week from Saturday,” he tells me as I drift back across the bridge. “That’s the story. For when people ask.”

I nod, not looking back. I’m warm all over. A little dizzy. Maybe I should’ve gone for one of the others—Erik, with his boring blond flattop. Or Magnus, with his permanent frown. Jack’s going to be one hell of a distraction. If he’d fixed me with those bottomless brown eyes and told me to hop on his pole, well....

I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, breathing hard. I can indulge myself later, back in my own...wait. Am I even going home after this? Or did I just pass the point of no return? Is this the part where I get plucked from my cozy little life? Transplanted to a world of magically restocking fridges and impossibly shredded bedmates?

Should’ve asked about that prior to signing. Should’ve asked about a lot of things.

I peel myself off the door and head for the ballroom, suddenly exhausted.