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garment-bag-wielding brides?

      Didn’t happen.

      She’d never heard of it happening, never read about it, never imagined it. What made it even more improbable was that James Elliott IV would show up, charge into the crowd and rescue her from them. Yet, in her muddled mind, that’s what had happened.

      He laid her gently on the unmade bed in her little attic apartment, then sat down by her side, looking concerned and strong and tall and absolutely gorgeous.

      She whimpered and then said, “Pinch me.”

      He frowned, touched his hand to the side of her face, feeling the spot where she thought the shoes in one of the brides’ garment bags had gotten her. “Do you need a doctor? I’ll take you.”

      “No, I mean … I think I’m dreaming …” Then thought how that might sound to him.

       I was dreaming you came charging to my rescue, after a year without a word from you …?.

      No, not going there.

      Not with James, especially if he really was here.

      “I dreamed I was being attacked by brides with bouquets,” she said.

      Which had him looking even more concerned. “Flowers? Chloe, those were garment bags—”

      “No, I know that! I’m just confused,” she said. “Not in that concussion sort of way. In that this-is-really-weird kind of way. You know?”

      “Yes,” he agreed, still looking worried.

      God, he smelled so good, so familiar.

      Chloe winced.

      Not now. Her life was falling apart already. She could not do this now with him. She looked at him warily.

      Collapsing in his arms the minute she saw him again was not how she’d ever imagined any reunion they might have. She was supposed to look her best, maybe all done up for a show, and he was supposed to look bleak and sad and lonely without her. He was supposed to say he missed her terribly, that he had never stopped thinking about her.

      That’s how it was supposed to go.

      “All of that really happened just now?” she asked him.

      “Yeah, it did.”

      “Pinch me,” she said. “I have to be sure.”

      James smiled for the first time since she’d seen him again, looking heartbreakingly sexy and so appealing she thought about dragging him down into the bed with her right that minute.

      “I’m not going to pinch you,” he whispered, ever so slowly lowering his head to hers.

      Her whole body started trembling before he even touched her, and she could have stopped it. Truly, she had time. And some sense of self-preservation that was still alive inside of her.

      After all, her most recent ex-fiancé had just been outed as a sometimes-gay man, having an affair with Chloe’s model’s boyfriend, outed on the runway at her Fashion Week show. Even Chloe, stupid as she could be about men, knew that the last thing she needed was for James Elliott to kiss her, even just once.

      But he’d charged to her rescue like Prince Charming, saving her from hysterical, rioting brides, after all. She still wasn’t convinced this was real. So she let him kiss her. It wasn’t the stupidest thing she’d done lately, and it was one thing she actually wanted to happen.

      He let his whole body sink into hers, those chiseled abs, the hard chest, wide shoulders. They sank into the feather mattress on her bed like they used to do. He’d loved this bed with her in it. She whimpered, a rush of hurt and longing washing over her, sending her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer.

      “Don’t be scared,” he said, tenderly, sweetly, his mouth merely a breath from hers.

      And then he finally closed that last bit of distance between them, his lips soft and firm, heartbreakingly familiar, and yet as tentative as he’d ever been with her. As if he knew how much this meant to her, and he truly didn’t want to hurt her. As if he knew what they were both risking, and yet just couldn’t stop himself.

      She let her eyes drift shut, drew in that wonderful man scent of his. Her hands came up to frame his face, to slide into his hair. He had beautiful, thick black hair. He took his time with the kiss, didn’t attack with his mouth as so many men did. He coaxed. He soothed. He smiled against her mouth, teasing ever so softly with his tongue, while she wanted to open up and devour him whole.

      He had to know that.

      It had always been that way between them.

      He took little nibbles of her, her mouth, her ear, her neck, back to her mouth, so carefully, so sweetly, with a kind of power and control that drove her crazy at the same time it left her in complete awe of him.

      He could seem so cool, so reasonable, so strong. Was this some sort of game to him, a corporate takeover he’d planned out in minute detail and executed to perfection? But then she caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes, and she saw. He was burning up inside, as desperate for her as she was for him.

      Was he still desperate for her? Had he missed her? Thought about her? Could he possibly want her back? At this, the worst moment in her life?

      She lay there beneath him, in complete awe, her head still spinning, that perfect, hot, hard body of his pressing into hers, which was positively purring with pleasure.

      He’d finally stopped teasing. Now he was kissing her for real, his body thrusting ever so slightly against hers in time with the thrust of his tongue in her mouth, everything about this, about him, as exciting as ever.

      He could have her clothes off in seconds. She knew it. She could be naked beneath him, wrap her legs around him, open herself up to him in every way, and he could be inside of her, hers again, at least for a few moments. She wanted it, and so did he.

      It would be so easy, and so good.

      And then they’d be right back to where they’d started, everything that had gone wrong between them still there for them to deal with. She couldn’t trust him. She knew it. She’d caught him with a model named Giselle, seen it with her own two eyes, and that had finally been the end of her and James.

      Chloe drew in a big breath of him, of everything he was, everything she felt, everything she’d missed so much about him, and somehow found the strength to turn her head away, to break the kiss, kill the moment.

      He went still on top of her, slowly raised his head and looked down at her, passion blazing from his dark, beautiful eyes, along with a million questions. And he had that dazed look that had her thinking he was as confused as she was.

      Had this really happened? Were they sure it wasn’t all a dream? A bizarre but very good one?

      “You saved me from the brides?” she asked tentatively.

      He cocked his head to the side, looking truly worried, then carefully, slowly, raised himself off her to sit by her side. His hand came to her face, tenderly working its way over her head, his eyes searching.

      “Chloe, are you hurt?”

      “No,” she whispered. “Not really. I was dreaming about my show. Did you see the video? It’s all over the internet. Everyone’s watching.”

      “Yes, I saw it.”

      “The way Bryce kept turning in a circle to try to get away from Eloise’s fingernails, and how her veil floated around them in circles, so you saw the whole thing through this gauzy haze, even the blood?”

      “Yes.”

      “If they made horror movies for fashion designers and brides, that’s what it would look like.”

      “Chloe, you’re scaring me,” he said.

      “And that dress? I loved that dress. I loved it more than any other

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