I pocketed the phone, glancing at Anotta. She was on hers, scrolling, her face unreadable, the glow of the screen highlighting her sharp cheekbones. That dress, emerald green, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline that showed just enough cleavage to make my throat dry, the fabric clinging to her waist before flaring into a subtle train. It was sexy, powerful, like she was daring the world to challenge her.
I averted my eyes, my pulse quickening.
The limo slowed, pulling up to Hemborg's, a small clothing store with frosted glass windows and a black sign, the staff inside locking up for the night. The storefront was understated but screamed money, mannequins in tailored suits, a single spotlight on a velvet display.
Anotta reached into her purse, pulling out a black card, handing it to me.
"Tell Hemborg I said hi," she said, her voice calm, commanding. "He'll get you something nice to wear."
