Page 47 of Gunnar

After applying the final sweep of mascara to my lashes, I set down the tube and stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans. “Coming,” I shout back, though Sarah has likely already started to take care of the delivery, or whatever task comes next in her endless rotation of managing my life.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I can see through the foyer windows to the driveway below. The delivery truck, a generic white van with a logo I don’t recognize, sits idling not far from the front door. Before the driver has even killed the engine, Jagger and Damon are flanking the vehicle like an ambush.

The courier steps out, a young guy in his twenties with a baseball cap and a clipboard. Damon says something to him that makes the kid’s face go pale. Jagger circles the van, peering into the windows, checking the undercarriage with a thoroughness that would be comical if it weren’t so deadly serious. Ordinarily, I would think this is an overreaction, intervene, and apologize to the poor delivery guy for my overzealous security team, but nothing about my life feels normal anymore.

I don’t want strange men getting this close to the house. I don’t want anyone I don’t know within breathing distance of my front door, let alone into the foyer, where my reflection stares back at me in the antique mirror, wide-eyed and vulnerable.

The courier unloads a couple boxes and garment bags, his movements jerky and nervous under the weight of Jagger and Damon’s scrutiny. They take the packages from him, Damon handling the flat boxes containing script proposals with surprising gentleness, and Jagger gathering the garment bags from the designer with careful hands. They bring everything inside and pause when they reach the entryway.

“The dresses,” Jagger says, and I turn to find him holding out the garment bags to Gunnar, who has appeared from somewhere downstairs.

Gunnar takes them, his large hands wrapping around the hangers with a delicacy at odds with his size. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that stretches across his chest, the fabric worn soft from washing, and dark jeans that accentuate the thick musculature of his thighs. His eyes find mine across the foyer, still full of the same barely leashed intensity that makes my stomach flutter with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

“I’ll take these to your room,” Gunnar shares, moving toward the stairs and ascending them with purpose.

I watch him go, the garment bags swaying in his grip, before turning to Sarah.

“Can you go through the boxes,” I ask Sarah. “There should be a few scripts and things mixed in with the fan mail. Can you please make sure they make it to my office?”

She nods, directing Damon and his full arms toward her office beside the den with the efficiency that makes her indispensable.

“When you’re done with the paperwork, head home for the day. It’s getting late. We can go over the scripts tomorrow.”

“You sure? I could stay, we could⁠—”

“Go home,” I interrupt, offering a smile that feels more genuine than it should, given everything. “Spend the evening not thinking about my schedule. I’ll be fine.”

She hesitates, her gaze flicking to the stairs, where Gunnar is cresting the second-floor landing, then back to me. “Call me if you need anything,” she says finally, gathering her things. “Anything at all, Dev. Day or night.”

“I will,” I promise, though we both know I won’t. Not unless it’s an emergency. And even then, probably not.

She heads toward her office as I climb the stairs slowly, my hand trailing along the banister. I find Gunnar in my bedroom, standing in my closet, with the garment bags draped over his arm, jostling them slightly as he makes room on the rung to hang them. “Careful with those!” I exclaim, stepping into the large walk-in closet with him.

He makes a face—a slight tightening of his jaw and subtle arch of one eyebrow that says without words that he thinks my concern is excessive. “They’re dresses,” he huffs, his voice that low rumble that never fails to send heat curling through my belly. “How expensive can they be?”

“They’re couture,” I inform him, moving close enough to inhale the cedarwood scent of him that has become synonymous with my safety. “And very.”

He makes the disbelieving expression again, only this one is more exaggerated, his eyes wider and mouth twitching at the corner. “A couple hundred?” he guesses with a playfulness in his tone.

“More like a couple thousand.” I chuckle. “Most of them are more like tens of thousands.”

He looks at the garment bags, and realization dawns on him as he does the quick mental calculation. He counts the hangars in his hand, his lips moving silently, before his gaze snaps to mine in horror. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” he exhales with genuine shock. “You spent sixty thousand dollars on dresses?”

An obnoxious, uncontainable laugh bubbles up from deep inside me. I can’t help it. “God no.” I shake my head. His brows furrow, and I want to kiss the crinkle between them to smooth it away. “They loan them to celebrities,” I explain, closing the distance between us. “To wear on the red carpet. In return, we drop their name in interviews and gush over the design. It’s advertising.”

His expression shifts to one of relief mixed with lingering skepticism. “So you don’t keep them?”

“Sometimes, if they gift them. But usually, they go back.”

He nods slowly, then turns back to my closet, moving with a new gentleness as he hangs the remaining garment bags on the rack. I watch him work, this dangerous man handling couture gowns with the care of a museum curator. He unzips one of the bags to look inside.

“This?” he attempts to confirm his disbelief as he exposes the gown beneath. The black mini dress dangles from the hanger, looking like someone attempted to decorate it with metallic gold spray paint in the dark. Hanging from three-quarters of the waistline is an orange floor-length skirt that looks exactly like shag carpet ripped from a 1970s rec room. “This is ten thousand dollars?”

“It’s a statement piece,” I impart, though even I can hear the doubt in my own voice. “It’s meant to cause discussion. Provoke a reaction.” The truth is, it’s just ugly. This kind of monstrosity is how you end up on worst-dressed lists with snarky captions about fashion victims. “I wouldn’t wear that.” Ever.

Gunnar looks from the dress to me, a playful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But you’re going to,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. He removes the garment bag, letting it fall to the floor, before holding the dress out to me one-handed. “Because now I’m curious.”

I look at him sideways. “Gunnar⁠—”