The Dirty Series 1(14)

It's nearing 6:00 when Jax Hunter turns into a winding driveway on none other than Meadow Lane in Southampton. Three years in the city, and I've never been to the Hamptons before—much less the ritziest avenue on the island.

I have no idea why someone like Jax invited me to a party like this one, but once I got into the car, it was out of my hands.

He made a couple of calls on his cell and whisked me to a high-end boutique in the Garment District. When we got there, the owner had put a temporary closed sign on the front door and was waiting inside next to a rack of dresses in my size. Inside of thirty minutes, my red sundress had been seriously upgraded. My new dress was also red, but that was where the similarities ended. Dressing well has been a major part of my job ever since I started at Basiqué, but this dress was on another level.

Christine, the owner of the boutique, sent me out the door fully styled with new heels and jewelry and a sassy wink. "You owe me, Hunter," she called as he opened the passenger door to the Aston Martin for me.

“I won't forget.” Even from the car, I could see the pink in Christine's cheeks. What is it about arrogant playboys that makes women fall so hard?

Jax drove fast on the way here, cutting the nearly two-hour drive down by at least twenty minutes, and thank god for that. My heart never stopped pounding with nervous jitters.

If Jax felt the same way, he didn't let it show. His confident driving was a perfect match for his confident attitude, and over the music playing low on the car's radio, he kept up a constant stream of well-rehearsed banter.

Like a fool, I fell for it. Hard.

For half the time, at least. The other half I spent furiously reminding myself not to get derailed by a man, not when my career is in such a damn precarious position. Especially not Jax Hunter.

You are just a distraction, I told myself at least ten times on the drive. A man like him won't need a woman like you for long. And more than that, he's a thorn in Sandra's side. Loyalty to my boss is the strongest card I have to play at work if I don't want to end up in a situation like the one my dad found himself in. All of it adds up to one fact: Jax Hunter is completely off-limits.

Yet every time he says my name, my heart flutters with a secret joy.

It's embarrassing to feel so giddy over him, but it probably has more to do with our destination than with the light, spicy scent of him that I catch whenever he moves. He keeps his eyes firmly focused on the road, but somehow I still get the impression that he's looking right through me.

By the time we reach Marie Hantz's palace of a home, I look calm and collected but inside I'm a hot mess. Jax holds out his hand to help me out of the car and tosses his keys to a valet waiting by the edge of the driveway.

The Aston Martin is pulling away and we're halfway to the door of the house—the understatement of the year—when I lose my cool. Before I can stop myself, I'm tugging at Jax's arm, forcing him to stop. I'm on the verge of losing my breath.

He looks down at me, the expression in his eyes a shifting combination of concern and irritation. “What's wrong?”

“I don’t—” I swallow hard. “I can't go to this party with you. Look at this house. I don’t belong here.”

Jax steps closer to me, looking like he's either going to laugh or sigh. “Catherine—Cate. What do you think is going to happen in there?”

"I don't know," I say, the last word coming out in a shameful gasp. “I work in fashion, for god’s sake. I’m not on their level.”

Now Jax does laugh. “Who gives a damn what they think? They're just people, Cate.” He leans down, putting his strong hands on either side of my waist, and puts his mouth next to my ear. “You look incredible. Not one person in there will think for an instant you don't belong. You're with me, remember?”

The heat from his breath sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. I want his hands all over me.

Maybe, just for today, I can go along with it, consequences be damned. Once I make the decision, the muscles in my shoulders relax. Jax feels it too, and presses in on my waist with just a hint of pressure before letting go and offering me his arm again.

Yes. For one day only, I'll allow myself to enter his world. It'll all be over by tomorrow. The carriage will turn back into a pumpkin, and I'll be back on the other side of the wall with Sandra, fighting to keep Basiqué—and my job—alive.

Today, I'm goddamn Cinderella.



The party is unbelievable.

On its surface, it's not much different than any other Fourth of July barbecue…but the details give it away.

All the food has been catered by some of the biggest names in dining in all of New York. Basiqué doesn't run features on restaurants, but Sandra demands nothing but the best. When she wants me to make reservations, she usually identifies the location by the name of its owner and nothing else, so as a result of hours of preemptive Googling I recognize two of them on sight. They seem to be mainly enjoying the party and making sure that all the dishes they prepared earlier are going out on time. Gordon Ramsay, on the other hand, is manning a massive, professional grill and trading jokes with a gaggle of men dressed, almost to a one, in variations of preppy chic. Boat shoes are the hot item of the day, although no one here would be caught dead in Sperrys. Gucci is the entry level.