The Project || 18+ [ON HOLD]

14. 🌶️

"Come on, you can do this," I whisper to my reflection, straightening the soft fabric of my sundress over my hips. "You're not actually going on a date with him. It's just church. How bad could it be?"

The motel room is a mess of discarded clothes and shoes. I've tried on practically every outfit in my closet. The clock is ticking, and Killian will be here soon. My fingers comb through rebellious curls, coaxing them into submission.

My stomach twists into tight coils, a dance of anxiety and anticipation. I draw in a steadying breath, striving to quell the quicksilver beat of my heart.

One final glance at the mirror, a rallying cry to the pale-faced girl staring back. "You can do this, Elora. It's just church. You've been to church before. It's no big deal. Just a few hours, then it will all be over." The corners of my mouth lift in a tentative smile, an attempt to bolster my wavering spirit.

Then, the insistent rap at the door shatters the fragile quiet. He's here.

"Be right there," I call out, smoothing my dress for the umpteenth time before I brave the threshold. Doubt niggles at me — is the hem of my dress inching too high? I'm second guessing my outfit choice.

The dress is modest enough, skirting just above my knees — still, it's not the length that stirs my concern. My gaze drifts downward, contemplating the soft curve of my chest that the dress doesn't quite keep to itself. Should I slip into something else? But the jumbled array of clothes already vetted and vetoed tells me it's too late for second thoughts.

My contemplation screeches to a halt, however, when Killian fills the doorway. He's the epitome of rugged charm in dark slacks and a navy-blue shirt, a hat shadowing his features. He looks like a cowboy version of James Bond.

His gaze sweeps over me, a silent caress that ignites a warm flush across my skin. When our eyes lock, there's an unreadable depth to his, a shadow that stirs unease. Is it anger that sharpens the blue of his eyes?

"You're staring," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

A momentary cloud of confusion crosses his expression, quickly replaced by a knowing smirk. "Just weighing our odds against the wrath of the heavens. Who's more at risk? You, in that dress, or me, for the sin of being with you in it."

An involuntary eye roll is my defense, a feeble shield against the heat in his words. "Ever the charmer," I retort.

"That's me, darlin'," he quips, his smile easy, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's a stiffness there, a barely concealed edge.

I exhale a resigned breath, "Let's just go," grabbing my purse and stepping past the threshold.

He's right behind, his hand finding a place at the small of my back. His touch is a claim, intimate and bold, sparking a trail of shivers that I struggle to ignore.