Chapter 37 - The Night Is Still Young

Chapter 37: Chapter 37 - The Night Is Still Young

Pierre was already moving.

He clapped his hands twice, sharp and loud, and two more associates appeared from the back. He started pointing at racks and rattling off instructions in rapid French-accented English.

"The emerald silk, the Lanvin. The black Saint Laurent, the one with the open back. The Valentino in the dusty rose, size four, no, six. And the cream Chanel jacket, the bouclé. Vite, vite!"

The associates scattered.

Pierre turned to Carrie, beaming, already holding a shimmering silver cocktail dress against her body and tilting his head to study the effect.

"Oh yes. With your coloring? Silver is perfect. We will need shoes, of course. And a clutch. Maybe earrings."

Carrie wasn’t looking at the dress.

She was looking at Jesse.

"I don’t want this," she said.

Pierre froze, still holding the silver dress up to her shoulders.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don’t want any of this." Carrie gestured around at the store. At the chandelier. At the associates hurrying back with armfuls of silk. "The clothes. The shoes. Whatever this is. I don’t want it."

Pierre lowered the dress slowly and looked at Jesse with wide eyes, clearly wondering if the biggest sale of his career was about to walk out the door.

Jesse’s expression stayed calm and unreadable.

"Pierre," he said, without taking his eyes off Carrie. "Keep picking. Don’t stop."

"But, mon ami—"

"Keep picking."

Pierre hesitated for half a second. Then he nodded and hurried back toward the racks.

Jesse took Carrie’s hand.

She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. He led her across the marble floor to a quiet corner beside a tall gilt mirror, far enough away that Pierre and the others couldn’t hear.

He let go of her hand and looked down at her.

"You don’t like the clothes here?" he asked. "Because if you don’t, we can go somewhere else. Bergdorf’s. Saks. Wherever you want."

Carrie stared at him.

"That’s not the point," she said, keeping her voice low. "I don’t care about the clothes. I just want to know what game you’re playing with me. None of this is normal, Jesse. Last night I... you know what I did last night. And today you show up at my job, tip me twenty thousand dollars, threaten to have me arrested, and now you want to buy me designer dresses?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Why? What do you want from me?"

Jesse looked at her for a long moment.

"You’re right," he said finally. "None of this is normal."

He stepped a little closer.

"But get used to it, Carrie. Because from here on out, your life isn’t going to be normal anymore."

Carrie frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means stop asking so many questions." He tilted his head. "Just enjoy the ride."

"Jesse, I’m serious, I need to know—"

Jesse reached around her and smacked her ass.

It wasn’t hard. Just one firm, sharp swat through the denim.

Carrie gasped.

A jolt shot straight up her spine, hot and electric, spreading through her chest and down into her stomach. Her face went scarlet.

She’d never felt anything like it. Ever.

"Go back to Pierre," Jesse said quietly.

She stared up at him, lips parted, eyes wide.

Then she turned around and walked back toward the racks without another word.

Jesse stayed by the mirror and watched her go.

He kept his face cool and confident. Like he’d done it a thousand times.

He had absolutely no idea why he’d just done that.

It had been pure instinct. Something in him had known that if he kept answering her questions, she’d keep spiraling deeper into her own panic. She needed something to snap her out of her head.

So he’d given her something.

And judging by the way she was walking, a little unsteady, her ears still burning red, it had worked.

Jesse looked at his own reflection in the gilt mirror.

’Who the hell am I turning into?’ he thought.

He wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t sure he hated it, either.

Pierre went to work like a man possessed.

Dress after dress. Gown after gown. A navy cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. A pale gold slip dress that clung to every curve. A crimson evening gown with a slit up the side that made one of the associates actually whistle. Cashmere sweaters. Silk blouses. Jeans that cost more than anything she has ever bought. Heels in four colors. A Hermès bag. Diamond stud earrings. A thin gold bracelet.

Carrie stood in the center of it all like a mannequin, turning when Pierre asked her to turn, stepping in and out of the dressing room.

But her mind wasn’t on the clothes.

Every few minutes, her eyes drifted across the store to where Jesse sat on the cream velvet couch with a glass of champagne, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching her.

Every time she caught him looking, her stomach flipped.

What was wrong with her?

He’d smacked her ass. In public. In a boutique on Madison Avenue. She should have been furious. She should have slapped him across the face.

Instead, she’d felt like her whole body had been plugged into a light socket.

She thought about the way he talked to her. Get in the car. Sit down. Go back to Pierre. Never a question. Always an order. And every single time, she obeyed. Not because she was scared. Not anymore.

Because some part of her wanted to.

Carrie stared at her reflection in the dressing room mirror, cheeks still flushed pink.

’Is this... my thing?’

She didn’t know. She’d never let herself find out.

******

An hour later, the velvet seating area was buried in garment bags and shopping boxes.

Eighteen complete outfits for Carrie, every one hand-picked by Pierre and accessorized from head to toe. Partway through, Jesse had also asked one of the other associates to bring him three tailored suits, along with shirts, ties, two pairs of Italian leather shoes and a cashmere overcoat. A man who was VP now needed to start dressing like one.

Pierre ran the total twice, his hands visibly shaking the second time.

$701,350.

The whole store had gone quiet.

Julien, the handsome associate who’d greeted them at the door, stood behind the counter staring at the number. The other associates had stopped pretending to work. Carrie stood beside Pierre in the pale gold slip dress and nude heels, clutching her old clothes in a shopping bag, looking like she might faint.

Pierre and Carrie had the same thought.

How was he going to pay for this?

Jesse stood up from the couch, set down his champagne flute and held out a black card.

Julien took it like it might bite him. He swiped it.

The machine paused. Everyone held their breath.

APPROVED.

"Thank you, sir," Julien said faintly.

Pierre let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

[Ding!]

[You spent $524,870 on Carrie Morton. 10X Critical Hit! Base reward: $5,248,700.]

[Affection Multiplier: 15%. Base reward multiplied by 15.]

[Total earned: $78,730,500!]

Jesse’s hand tightened around his wallet.

He didn’t let a single thing show on his face. But inside, his heart was hammering against his ribs.

Seventy-eight million dollars, for buying Carrie some dresses.

Last night, he’d been lying in an alley, two thousand dollars gone, coughing up blood, wondering if he’d see morning.

[The $176,480 spent on the host’s personal items does not qualify for rewards.]

’Worth it anyway,’ Jesse thought.

Pierre grabbed him by both arms.

"Jesse." His voice came out high and strangled, and suddenly the elegant French accent was gone. In its place was a thick, unmistakable Southern drawl. "Jesse, baby, how in the hell did you come up with this kind of money?"

Jesse stared at him.

"Pierre," he said slowly. "Are you from New Orleans?"

Pierre’s eyes went wide. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

Then he slowly lowered it, glanced over his shoulder at Julien, and leaned in close.

"Born and raised in the Ninth Ward, honey," he whispered. "But nobody buys a ten-thousand-dollar dress from a boy named Pete Thibodeaux. So keep that between us." The French accent snapped back into place like a light switch. "Now, answer the question. How?"

Jesse laughed.

"Got lucky with some investments."

Pierre narrowed his eyes. He clearly didn’t believe a word of it. But he was also about to make the biggest commission of his life, so he didn’t push.

"Lucky," he repeated. "Of course. Very lucky."

The staff carried everything out to the Porsche in four trips. Julien held the door open on every single one, smiling at Jesse like they’d been best friends for years.

The trunk filled until it wouldn’t close. The rest went into the back seat, piled to the windows.

Pierre hugged Jesse goodbye on the sidewalk and kissed both of his cheeks.

"Come back anytime," he said. "I’ll open the store at midnight for you."

"I’ll hold you to that."

Pierre turned to Carrie and squeezed her hands. "You are going to break hearts in these clothes, chérie." He winked. "Starting with his."

Carrie blushed so hard she was sure it was visible from space.

The trees along Madison Avenue sparkled with tiny white lights, and the sky had gone a deep, inky blue.

Carrie stood beside the car in the pale gold slip dress. It hugged her body like it had been made for her, the silk catching the streetlights every time she moved. Her red hair had come loose from its bun somewhere between outfits and now spilled over her shoulders in long, wild curls.

She looked at the overflowing Porsche. Then at Jesse.

"So," she said, a little breathless. "Are we... calling it a night?"

Jesse took his time looking at her. His gaze traveled slowly from her curls to the thin gold straps on her shoulders, down the shimmering silk to her heels, and back up again.

"In that dress?" he said. "Hell no."

He walked around the car and opened the passenger door for her.

"The night’s still young." He smiled. "And we still need to talk. Remember?"