Page 23 of Bronson

I stand in the doorway, my gaze taking in every inch of the store. His voice is kinder than usual when he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You can go all the way in.”

I look behind me—he is waiting for me to step forward so he can close the door.

“Oh… sorry,” I say embarrassedly. I step into Daughtry’s.

It’s like a dream.

My head feels floaty. My feet feel as if they are barely contacting the floor.

I’m in heaven.

I look to him for assurance. He gives me a smile and a nod. “Go on, then.”

I return his smile. He stands, watching me with an amused look on his handsome face. A tall, too skinny, too blonde woman comes rushing over, her cheeks pinkening when she sees his face. “Hello there. How may I help you, Mr. Bachman?” She either doesn’t see me or prefers to pretend I don’t exist.

I instantly feel short, pudgy, and invisible.

Damn genetics.

She bats her eyelashes, flashing a smile of impossibly white teeth.

He doesn’t meet her adoring gaze. “We’re just fine, thank you. The lady would like to look around… unencumbered.”

Her face drops. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

“We’ll be sure to let you know if we need any help,” he adds politely.

“Okay.” She gives me a small side glance of envy before she walks away.

The lady would like to look around… without a tall blonde model hovering next to her, thank you very much.

He hadn’t even looked at her. His gaze was still on me.

Saleswoman forgotten, I look around the store. I have no idea where to start.

His warm hand presses into my lower back. Shivers run up my spine. It’s a delicious feeling, to have a man’s strong hand resting on that spot. It’s caring, so protective. Possessive. I flick through the files of memories in my mind. Has a man ever touched me there before? I can’t recall.

I love it.

His hand remains in that place and he gently guides me to the left side of the store.

My hands clasp together, wringing tightly as if stopping one another from grabbing something off a shelf and stuffing it in beneath my dress.

I am not here to steal.

I am an actual customer of Daughtry’s—the most elegant, classy place a New Yorker could purchase a coat. Okay, so I’m not the one doing the purchasing, per se, but still.

He leaves my side and steps toward the display of women’s coats. My back feels cold and lonely where his hand was.

Carefully, he puts his folded coat on one of the chairs that sits beside us. Focusing on the display, he reaches out, flipping through the rack. His brow narrows as he examined the options. Holding them out and looking at the length. Feeling the fabric between his fingers. It’s a pleasure to watch him. He takes such care with each one, handling the coats as if they are a treasured pet.

Finally, he settles on one.

Winter white.

Is there a more beautiful color choice for a coat? It looks to be knee length and made of cashmere. It’s accented with big wooden buttons, stained a dark brown.

It is gorgeous.