Chapter 13: Chapter thirteen

Chapter thirteen.

Alexander’s POV.

I swallowed, trying not to laugh. “You never said anything about how much shyness was allowed.”

“It’s a one night business party, I don’t think we would be allowed to change clothes many times”. He responded sarcastically.

“That’s enough spending, I will pick you up by eight”. He didn’t even let me respond before hanging up. I stared down at the mountain of luxury bags around me like they were evidence at a crime scene.

How much had I spent?

I had no idea.

But it couldn’t have been that much, right?

A hundred grand, max. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

I mean, Brandon was rich—rich rich—not just “has a nice car” rich. He was “owns the building the car is parked under” rich. “Has a black card that probably came with its own offshore bank account” rich. Surely he wouldn’t blink at this. A few watches. Some cologne. A handful of perfectly tailored suits. Essentials, really.

He probably won’t care if I spend a little more in a barber shop.

I mean, after what I’d already dropped on suits, cologne, and ten damn watches, what was another couple hundred for a haircut and a shave? Pocket change, really. For Brandon, at least.

Besides, if I was going to walk into that party on his arm correction, beside him, I had to look like I belonged there. Like I wasn’t some scruffy assistant who’d tripped and fallen into luxury. I needed polish. Precision. A sharp jawline that said, Yes, I do sign six-figure contracts before breakfast.

So I found the best-rated grooming salon within ten blocks. You know the kind. Marble floors, gold accents, jazz music that made you sit up straighter. The receptionist gave me the kind of once-over usually reserved for stray dogs, right until I handed her the black card.

Her tone changed instantly. Power of money I scoffed.

I stood nervously in front of the mirror, adjusting the camera angle on my phone until it caught the full look, head to toe. The suit hugged my body like it had been stitched by angels. I hit the video call button. It rang twice before Kira answered.

The second her face appeared, her mouth dropped open.

“Oh my sweet lord!” she screamed into the phone, nearly dropping it. “Who are you and what have you done with my socially awkward, hoodie-wearing disaster of a best friend?!”

I laughed, turning slightly so she could see the fit from the side. “You like?”

“Like? Alexander, you look like a Bond villain who moonlights as a fashion god. That jawline? That suit?! Oh my God, you’re going to give that man an aneurysm!”

My smile faltered slightly. “You think it’s too much?”.

“Too much? If Brandon doesn’t devour you when he see you. Something has to be wrong with his dick”.

“Jesus Christ, Kira!” I hissed, lowering my voice and glancing toward the door. Only twenty minutes left to eight, he could walk in any second, and the last thing I needed was him overhearing that.

She just laughed. “What? I’m not wrong.”

“You’re always wrong,” I muttered, fussing with my collar. “Besides, he’s probably straight.”

Kira snorted. “Please. That man looks at you like he’s already memorized your blood type. And I say this with love: you are not that good of an assistant.”

I scowled, cheeks heating up. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said brightly. “Now go knock him dead. And by ‘dead,’ I mean make him wish this was more than just a business trip.”

I groaned. “Goodbye, Kira.”

“Have fun, pretty boy,” she called before I ended the call. Shortly after text pop in.

“Downstairs”. From Brandon.

I stared at the screen for a beat longer, then looked at myself one last time in the mirror. The suit was perfect. The cologne lethal. Hair trimmed, watch gleaming, and nerves? On the verge of collapse.

I left the hotel room, took the elevator down with my heart in my throat, and the moment the doors opened—

There he was.

Brandon Cole, standing near the entrance in a dark charcoal suit that probably cost more than everything I’d bought combined. Sharp lines, open collar, and an expression that turned heads the second he moved.

And God help me when his eyes landed on me, he stared. His gaze raked over me in a slow, deliberate sweep, starting from the polished shoes up to the slim cut of the suit, then pausing lingering at my throat, my jaw, my eyes.

And then, low and barely audible, I almost didn’t caught it.

“Fuck.” My breath hitched.

Was that a good fuck? Or a bad one?

Was it “fuck, you look like trouble” or “fuck, you look like a mistake”?

I couldn’t tell.

Brandon’s face was unreadable, his jaw tight, lips parted just barely, but his eyes…

“Let’s go,” he said, voice low and tight as he cleared his throat and looked away. He moved ahead briskly, opening the car door and gesturing for me to get in without another glance.

I followed, trying to ignore the way my hands were sweating. Does he like it?

Why do I care if he likes it?

It’s just clothes. It’s just a suit. And cologne. And the haircut. And the… okay, maybe it was a full makeover, but still.

The inside of the car was quiet. Tense. His hand flexed on the steering wheel. When I couldn't handle the silence anymore I voice out.

“Do you not like it?” I blurted, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

He glanced at me, brows raised slightly. “Pardon?”

I looked away, suddenly fascinated by the glowing dashboard. “The suit. The… look. You didn’t say anything, so I just thought…”

His silence stretched for a second too long.

Then—“You look good.”

I blinked. “Good?”

He exhaled, slow, like he was trying to keep something tightly leashed. “You look… expensive. Sharp. You’ll do.”

You’ll do? My stomach twisted. I opened my mouth to say something, maybe something snarky, You’ll do? I nearly broke your bank account but he spoke again before I could.

“You look so fucking good I almost forgot how to speak,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

My breath caught.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, eyes fixed on the road.