Page 29 of Silk and Honey

I can tell I already hate the guy. My protective instincts urge me to swoop forward and protect my man, but I push the feelings down.

Behind him, two younger assistants carry garment bags and camera equipment, looking thoroughly exhausted already. That’s not a good sign.

Scott doesn't look at the clothes first. He doesn't look at the beautiful, bright jewelry displays or the unique architecture of the boutique. Instead, his cold gaze sweeps across the room until it locks directly onto Avery.

His target.

I get the feeling Avery was right. The man totally has it out for him.

A slow, patronizing smirk spreads across Scott’s lips. "Well, well, well," Scott says, his voice carrying a sharp, nasal drawl that instantly grates on my nerves. "Avery Wade. Or should I say, Avery the Runaway? When Ella told me you had packed up and fled to the middle of nowhere, I honestly thought she was joking. I expected to find you working a cash register at a tractor supply store, not pretending to play couture in a barn."

Out of the corner of my eye, Ezra bristles—probably pissed his boutique got compared to a barn—and Avery narrows his eyes.

I feel a sudden, violent surge of heat flare across my face. My fingers curl into tight fists, and my jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. I take a slow, deliberate breath through my nose, forcing my body to stay perfectly still in the shadows. Not fucking yet. Calm yourself. Ezra might be allowing me to act like a protective caveman here in my corner, but this is still a professional business, after all.

Avery doesn't back down. He stands his ground, his eyebrow arching and hip popping defiantly as he looks Scott right in the eye. "Good to see you too, Scott. Welcome to Foggy Basin."

"Yes, Foggy Basin," Scott sneers, waving a dismissive hand toward the windows. "The drive from the airport was absolutely thrilling. Miles of dirt, tractors, and the overwhelming scent of fertilizer. It’s a damn miracle your creative skills haven't completely rotted away in the cow shit."

Before Avery can reply, Ezra steps smoothly into the space between them. His presence is immediate, a protective barrier of pure sophistication that forces Scott to freeze.

"Mr. Woods," Ezra says, his voice cool. "I’m Ezra, the owner of Beauty and the Boutique, and the founder of Ezra Strum Designs. We received your updated itinerary. We’re fully prepared for the critique, though I must ask that we keep everything professional and the focus entirely on the collection. Our time today is quite valuable."

The moment Ezra speaks, Scott’s entire demeanor completely shifts. The arrogant, biting sneer vanishes, replaced instantly by a wide smile that looks fake as fuck. He takes a step forward, extending his hand to Ezra with an exaggerated wave.

"Ezra! Of course," Scott the suck-up says. "It’s an absolute honor. I have followed your boutique’s trajectory for years from Southern California. Your early collections were brilliant. When I saw the advance lookbook for this Fall launch, I told my editor-in-chief that we had to feature it. The structural lines, the ambition... I knew immediately that a veteran mind like yours was behind it.”

Veteran? Ezra is only a few years older than Avery.

“It’s a tragedy,” he continues. “That you have to rely on city runaways for assembly assistance these days." He shoots a nasty, passive-aggressive glare over Ezra’s shoulder toward Avery. "Some people simply couldn't handle the fast-paced environment of a real fashion house," Scott continues, his tone light but cutting. "They crack under the pressure of a real deadline and flee to the country to do basic needlework. But a true visionary like you, Ezra? You know how to keep a brand alive, even in a cultural wasteland like this."

Avery flinches. It is a tiny, almost invisible movement, but I see it. And the moment I see it, something primal and dangerous clicks into place inside my chest.

I step out of the shadows.

My heavy leather boots make a loud, solid thud against the hardwood floor. The sound is deliberate, in the quiet boutique. Like a gunshot. Scott stops mid-sentence, his assistants freezing as my large six-foot-four frame moves into the bright light. I’m wearing my dark button-up work shirt, my broad shoulders and tanned forearms completely exposed.

I don't say a fucking word. I simply walk until I’m standing directly behind Avery. I place a single massive hand lightly against the small of Avery’s back. His entire body relaxes, and a shuddering breath of relief wooshes out of him.

Ezra chuckles softly, a small hand covering his lips.

Scott blinks, his eyes widening as he has to tilt his head way back to look up at me. For once, I’m grateful for my height. He takes an involuntary step backward, his smile faltering as his gaze darts from my hand to my cold eyes.

"And... who is this?" Scott asks, his voice losing a bit of its sharp edge, a nervous tremor creeping in. "A local farmhand? Security?"

"This is Gideon," Avery says, with a smirk. He tilts his head up, offering me a quick, beautiful look of absolute trust before looking back at Scott. "He is our exclusive materials partner. And he is a vital part of this collection."

Scott lets out a forced, high-pitched chuckle, trying desperately to regain his footing. "Materials partner? Right. I suppose someone has to haul the heavy rolls of fabric. How charmingly rustic." He turns his back to me quickly, though I notice his shoulder blades are tense.

Charmingly rustic, my ass.

Scott focuses back on Ezra, desperate to get away from me. "Anyway, Ezra, let’s see the garments. I want to inspect the pieces that you engineered."

"Right this way, Mr. Woods," Ezra says. His eyes dart to me for a fraction of a second, a quiet nod of gratitude passing between us before he turns toward the primary display.

The collection is arranged in a beautiful, sweeping arc across the back wall. The rich, autumn color palette of ‘Honey & Harvest’ glows under the warm studio lighting. Leafy greens, deep amber charmeuse, heavy chocolate statin, burnt orange silks, and structural tailored blazers.

Scott walks up to the first rack, his notebook open, his pen poised like a weapon. He wants to find a flaw. I can see it in the aggressive, hunting way his eyes twitch across the seams. I just know this fucker wants to write a scathing piece about a small-town boutique getting ahead of itself.