CHAPTER FOUR
1809 Words
The first official event as Julian West’s girlfriend was, in Isabelle’s professional opinion, a circus.
A high-end, invitation-only, champagne-fueled circus—with billionaires for clowns and models for acrobats—but still. A circus.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase in the Gilded Orchid Hotel, wearing a red silk gown so tight she could barely breathe. Julian, of course, looked infuriatingly perfect in a tux, all sharp lines and sharper jaw. He offered his arm, calm as ever.
“Ready, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Isabelle turned to him with a saccharine smile. “If you call me that again, I’ll stab you with a shrimp fork.”
Julian didn’t blink. “Then I’ll just have to make sure they only serve canapés.”
They descended the stairs like royalty, and the room practically bowed in their direction. Photographers aimed, cameras flashed, and Isabelle’s smile became the most expensive thing in the room.
“Look adoring,” Julian murmured through clenched teeth.
“I am,” she hissed back. “Adoring the idea of wine and an escape route.”
He laughed under his breath, and it sounded dangerously close to affection. “You’re a natural.”
“Because I hate everyone here,” she replied sweetly.
They made the rounds—handshakes, laughter, his fingers occasionally grazing the small of her back like a reminder. Stay close. Smile more. Laugh when I do.
At one point, an older woman with pearls and the voice of a dying swan leaned in and said, “Julian, darling, she’s gorgeous. And look at how she gazes at you! You’re glowing.”
“Sunburn,” Isabelle replied. “From the fires of hell where we first met.”
The woman choked on her champagne. Julian pressed a hand to his mouth to hide his grin.
Later, once they escaped to a quiet balcony, Julian handed her a glass of white wine and leaned on the railing beside her.
“You handled that well.”
“I wanted to throw a crab puff at Senator Graham’s face,” Isabelle said. “Does that count?”
“That improves your score, actually.”
She sipped her wine, feeling the tension of the crowd dissolve as the cool air swept through her hair.
“Your mother kept staring at me,” she said after a beat.
“She’s assessing. She thinks I brought home another actress.”
“You did.”
“You’re not an actress, Isabelle.”
She tilted her head. “Then what am I?”
Julian’s gaze slid over her slowly. “A liability. With legs.”
“Charming.”
“I meant it as a compliment. You’re the most dangerous person in this room.”
“And you like that?”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a gravelly whisper. “I live for it.”
Her breath hitched. The space between them sizzled.
“I should slap you,” she muttered.
“I should let you.”
He stepped in. One hand slid to her hip, the other grazed her arm, leaving heat behind.
“You’re playing with fire,” she warned.
He dipped his mouth near her ear. “Good. I like the burn.”
Their eyes locked—his full of reckless confidence, hers daring him to try something.
And then he kissed her.
Not the soft, fake-for-the-cameras kind. It was hot, slow, and real. Like he’d been holding back for days. Like he wanted to memorize the taste of her.
Isabelle didn’t mean to respond.
But she did.
Her hands found his chest, gripping the lapels of his tux. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as her back hit the balcony door.
And just when she moaned—just when his lips traced the edge of her jaw—
The door opened.
“Julian—oh!”
It was his assistant.
Julian didn’t flinch. “Yes, Andrew?”
Andrew cleared his throat violently, eyes anywhere but on them. “The car is ready, sir.”
“Perfect timing,” Isabelle deadpanned, breathless.
Julian leaned in again. “We’ll continue this. Privately.”
Isabelle was fairly certain her knees were jelly. Or maybe meringue. Either way, walking was a challenge.
They got in the car. The moment the door shut, Julian pulled her onto his lap, lips already at her throat.
“Hey,” she gasped. “This wasn’t in the contract.”
“Consider it a bonus clause.”
“You’re impossible.”
He grinned, trailing kisses to her shoulder. “And yet, here you are. On my lap.”
“Only because your driver’s a mute and this dress doesn’t let me sit like a normal person.”
“Of course,” he murmured, nibbling just beneath her ear. “Strictly business.”
She cursed under her breath.
“Language, Hartley,” he teased. “You’ll give me ideas.”
“I already gave you ideas,” she muttered, fingers curling into his hair as he bit lightly on her collarbone.
“Correction,” he said, lips brushing her skin. “You inspire them.”
She pushed him back—barely. “We’re arriving at your apartment. You should fix your hair.”
He gave her a lazy smile, clearly amused by her ruined lipstick and wild curls.
“And you should fix your morals.”
“You’re the one who kissed me,” she said, adjusting her top.
“You kissed me back,” he said smugly.
Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Get out first. And remember: we’re just a contract.”
Julian stepped out, turned back to her, and offered his hand like a prince. “Then I must be extremely fond of contracts.”
She took it, muttering, “I’m going to kill you.”
“You’ll have to stand in line.”
They barely made it into the penthouse before Isabelle was pressed against the door, her clutch purse falling to the floor with a soft thud.
“This is still part of the act, right?” she murmured, breath shallow as Julian’s mouth grazed her collarbone again, the slow drag of his lips wickedly deliberate.
“Of course,” Julian said, lifting her slightly so her back arched just right. “Very committed method acting.”
“You’re out of control.”
“You like it.”
She did. And that annoyed her. Because this wasn’t in the damn script—this feeling like her skin was on fire and her thoughts were molasses. She pushed at his chest, but he didn’t move—just watched her with that maddening calm, like he knew every button to press and when to press it.
“I should walk out,” she said.
Julian smirked. “You won’t.”
“You think I’m that easy?”
“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think you’re that curious.”
He moved away, suddenly, infuriatingly, and walked toward the kitchen like he hadn’t just made her question every brain cell she possessed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath.
“Pouring you a drink,” he said. “You look like you need something to cool off.”
She stared at him. “You are the most frustrating man alive.”
“False. I’m the most honest man you’ve met in a while.”
“Oh, please.”
He returned with a glass of wine and handed it to her, completely unfazed by the fact that her lipstick was halfway to oblivion and her dress strap was sliding down her shoulder.
“Tomorrow,” he said, like they hadn’t almost combusted, “we have a brunch with the board. You’ll wear something floral, not tight, and you’ll smile like I’ve just proposed.”
She took the wine. “And what if I show up in leather and tell them you snore like a warthog?”
He grinned. “Then I’ll tell them I’m into that.”
“You really are impossible.”
“And yet…” he gestured around the penthouse. “Here you are. My fake girlfriend. Drinking my wine. Wearing my future mother’s favorite designer.”
Isabelle flopped onto the plush couch, kicking off her heels. “Do you always talk this much after kissing someone like you’re closing a business deal?”
He sat beside her, way too close. “Only when I like the ROI.”
She side-eyed him. “Please stop turning me into an asset.”
“You’re more than an asset,” Julian said, voice low. “You’re a high-risk investment.”
She stared at him.
And then laughed—full, unfiltered, belly-deep laughter. “God, that was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“I aim to please.”
“Well, you’re failing spectacularly.”
“I can try harder,” he said, his hand casually resting behind her on the couch, his thumb lightly brushing her shoulder.
“You’re not supposed to try anything.”
He leaned closer. “Then why haven’t you moved?”
She hated him a little bit in that moment.
Mostly because he was right.
“I hate you,” she whispered, though her voice had none of the venom it needed.
He smirked. “If you say that while touching my leg again, I might get confused.”
She looked down.
Her hand was, in fact, on his thigh.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, yanking it back like she’d been burned. “Your leg’s in my space.”
“You sat next to me.”
“There’s a whole couch!”
“There’s a you. I picked the better view.”
She groaned and downed half the wine.
“You’re trouble.”
“You signed up for trouble, Hartley. You just didn’t read the fine print.”
“I’m going to regret this.”
“You already do,” he said softly. “And you’re still here.”
The room quieted.
The kind of quiet that filled all the space between words.
Julian leaned forward, close enough for her to see the faintest freckle near his temple. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” she said honestly.
He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I expected someone I could control.”
“And I expected someone boring and predictable.”
They stared at each other for one long, hot second.
And then—
He kissed her again.
This time slower.
Deeper.
No performance. No audience.
Just them.
And when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, he whispered, “Still want to walk out?”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t remember the way to the door.”
His smile was wicked. “Good.”
- Writer
