Chapter 5: The Zipper

The zipper stuck at my shoulder blades, and the only other person in the penthouse was Cain Rourke.

It was the night of the Mayor's Harbor dinner.

Every event day, a stylist came to his apartment and zipped me into whatever the evening needed.

Today she had the flu, and the dress had come by courier in a garment bag with a note that said good luck.

I stood in his hallway in a midnight-blue gown, holding the front of it up with both hands.

"Mr. Rourke," I called. "I need a favor."

He appeared in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, with his tie in one hand.

He saw the dress and stopped.

"Clause nine," he said.

"I know what clause nine says. It says physical contact outside appearances is not part of the role."

"Then I can call someone."

"Everyone you'd call is at the dinner. Gus is downstairs, and he'd faint."

He looked at the ceiling for a moment.

"Turn around."

I turned, and I faced the long hall mirror, so I could see him come up behind me.

He took the zipper tab between his thumb and finger.

He pulled it straight up.

It didn't move.

"It's caught," I said.

"I see that."

He pulled harder. The fabric puckered over my spine.

"Don't use the voice," I said.

"I'm not using a voice."

"You're using the one you use on dock workers. The zipper is not a dock worker."

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