ELLA

I stare at Darren’s outstretched hand like it’s a live grenade wrapped in cashmere.

“Shopping?” I repeat, one perfectly arched brow climbing toward my hairline. “You? Darren Ford? The man who probably has his suits custom-made by monks in the Alps and considers ‘retail therapy’ a form of medieval torture?”

Darren winces, keeping that warm, almost dangerous smile trained on me like a spotlight. “Well,” he pinches his brows with an exaggerated gesture. “I’m ...