Chapter 4: The Wardrobe Malfunction
The hum of the string quartet was a distant, gauzy thing, barely penetrating the mahogany-paneled quiet of the VIP suite. Matt stood near the bar, the city a glittering, silent mosaic thirty floors below. He’d been ready for twenty minutes. The event was a soft roar beneath their feet.
He frowned at his cuff, at the stubborn mother-of-pearl button that refused to slide through the fine cotton slit.
“Damn it,” he muttered, not expecting an audience. He pulled, a sharp, frustrated tug.
The button shot off like a bullet, pinging against the crystal decanter on the bar before arcing downward and skittering across the polished floor.
It came to a rest against the toe of a patent leather pump.
He looked up. Dasha stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, having returned from her final check-in with the event coordinator. Her eyes tracked from his face, to his bare wrist, to the button at her feet.
For a second, they just stared. Him, caught in a rare moment of undignified defeat; her, the picture of arrested motion.
Then she moved. She bent, a clean and efficient motion, and plucked the button from the floor. When she straightend, her fingers—deliberate or not—grazed the bare skin of his ankle above his sock. The contact was electric, a brand in the cool, climate-controlled air.
“It won’t—” he began, the ghost of a growl in his voice.
“I see that,” she interrupted, her own voice suspiciously even. She reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and produced a small, flat leather case. She unzipped it. Inside lay a tiny spool of black thread, two needles, a pair of folding scissors, and a few spare buttons of various types.
Matt’s mouth curved into a slow, incredulous smirk. “Of course you have a needle and thread on you. Do you also carry a spare shirt?”
“No,” she said, not looking up as she threaded the needle with practiced, steady hands. “But I do carry a taser.”
A laugh burst out of him, low and warm, unstoppable. It felt strange in his chest. Good. “For buttons that fight back?”
“For contingencies.” She finally met his eyes, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “This qualifies.”
She stepped closer. “Give me your wrist.”
He held out his arm. The silence now was different from the trailer’s. It was closer, denser. The scent of her bergamot and rain cut through the room’s whiskey-and-wood smell. She cradled his hand in hers, her touch businesslike, but the heat of her palm seeped into his skin. She bent her head, focusing on the task. Her dark hair fell forward, obscuring her face.
He watched her. The furrow of intense concentration between her brows. The surprising delicacy of her fingers as she pinched the fabric and pushed the needle through. The faint, rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
“You’re good at that,” he said, his voice quieter than he’d intended.
“My grandmother believed self-sufficiency was the only true luxury.” She didn’t look up. “She also believed most men were helpless. She wasn’t wrong.”
“Ouch.”
A tiny, quick smile. “Present company excluded, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
She worked, her knuckles brushing against the inside of his wrist with every tiny pull of the thread. Each brush was a jolt. He could feel the tension coiling in her, see it in the tight line of her shoulders under the sleek blazer. She was holding her breath.
“The desert trip is still on,” he said, apropos of nothing. Just to say something. To fill the agonizing, wonderful space between them.
“I know. I confirmed the rental. The ‘silent rocks’ await.” A pause. The needle dove in again. “Elliot texted. He wants to know if the ‘ecosystem’ is stable.”
Matt let out a slow breath. “What did you say?”
“I said the ecosystem was functioning within expected parameters.” She clipped the thread with her little scissors. “There. It’ll hold.” She patted the spot, a quick, firm touch, and released his hand.
The loss of contact was immediate, a cold rush where her warmth had been. She turned to put her kit away, putting the bar between them again. A professional barrier.
He flexed his hand, looked at the perfectly re-attached button. It was better than before. “Thank you.”
“It’s in the job description. ‘Other duties as assigned.’” She poured a glass of water from a carafe, her back to him. “You should head down. They’re ready for you.”
He didn’t move. He studied the line of her spine, the way she held herself so perfectly, so rigidly in control. He thought of the trailer, the cold coffee, the stolen quiet. He thought of the tremor he’d just felt in her fingers.
“Dasha.”
She turned, glass in hand, face a smooth, polite mask. “Yes?”
The words jammed in his throat. All the easy lines, the charming deflections, they dried up. What came out was raw, undecorated. “It’s not just the job.”
The mask didn’t crack. It just… flickered. Like a faulty translation. She took a sip of water, buying time, her eyes locked on his over the rim of the glass. When she lowered it, her voice was barely a whisper. “I know.”
Below them, a wave of applause erupted, muffled but vigorous. His cue. The world was waiting.
He took a step toward the door, then stopped, right in front of her. He was close enough to see the faint trace of gold in her brown irises, the almost invisible scar through her left eyebrow. He could smell the clean, sharp scent of her skin beneath the perfume.
“After the desert,” he said, his voice low and certain. “We should… talk. About the parameters.”
Her breath hitched, just once. A tiny, devastating fracture in her composure. She gave a single, nearly imperceptible nod.
He left then, walking into the hum of the waiting crowd, the button on his cuff perfectly secure. She didn’t follow immediately. She stood at the window, looking at her own ghostly reflection in the glass, her fingers pressed to her lips as if to seal in the word that had almost逃げた.
Talk. It was the most dangerous contingency she’d never planned for.