The Regal downtown was old-world glamour: velvet seats, art-deco sconces, the faint smell of buttered popcorn and aged carpet. Mike was already waiting in the lobby—casual in dark jeans, a fitted charcoal Henley that hugged his shoulders without screaming money. No Rolex today. Just a simple leather watch and that easy, confident posture that made people glance twice anyway.
He spotted her immediately. "Clara. You made it."
She smiled—nervous, relieved. "Just a movie, right?"
"Just a movie," he echoed, handing her a ticket. "Back row, center. Best view."
They filed in with the crowd. The theater was half-full—couples, a few lone viewers, the low hum of pre-show chatter. Mike didn't try anything. No arm around her shoulders. No hand on her knee. He cracked quiet jokes about the trailers—mocking the over-the-top action sequences, whispering terrible impressions of the actors. Clara laughed—real laughs, the kind that surprised her. For ninety minutes, it felt… normal. Safe. Almost friendly.
When the credits rolled, she felt a strange mix: relief that nothing had happened, and a tiny, dark whisper of disappointment she refused to name.
They stepped out into the cool evening air. Mike stretched, cracking his neck. "That was solid. Not life-changing, but solid. Hungry?"
Clara checked her phone—Fin hadn't texted yet. "A little. But I should probably—"
"Shopping first," Mike cut in smoothly. "There's a boutique two blocks over. New collection just dropped. Come on—one store, then I'll get you home."
She should have said no.
Instead she followed.
The boutique was high-end but not Harrington-level ostentatious: soft lighting, minimalist racks, a single saleswoman in all black who greeted Mike by name. "Mr. Callahan. Back so soon?"
He flashed an easy smile. "Showing a friend the new arrivals."
Clara browsed at first—safe pieces, neutrals, things she might actually wear to a foundation event. Mike watched, patient, then started pulling items off the rack.
First a deep burgundy silk blouse—low-cut, sheer sleeves. "Try this. The color would look killer on you."
She laughed it off. "Too bold for me."
He didn't push. Just hung it on the fitting-room door.
Next: a black leather mini skirt—short, tight, dangerous. "With boots. Trust me."
Clara's cheeks warmed. "I don't do minis."
"Yet," he said lightly, adding it to the pile.
Then the dress.
Emerald green—Fin's favorite color on her—but nothing like the one he'd bought. This one was bodycon, plunging neckline that dipped to the sternum, back open almost to the waist, hem hitting mid-thigh. The fabric shimmered like liquid sin.
Mike held it up against her, not touching, just close enough that she could feel the heat off his body. "This one. No arguments."
Clara stared at it. "I can't wear that."
"Why not?" His voice dropped, casual but probing. "Afraid it'll look too good?"
She swallowed. "It's… revealing."
"That's the point." He leaned in a fraction. "You've got the body for it. Stop hiding behind cashmere and pearls."
The saleswoman appeared with a knowing smile. "Fitting room's ready. I'll bring the others."
Clara took the dress—mostly to prove she wasn't scared—and stepped inside the curtained alcove.
She changed slowly. The fabric slid over her skin like cool water. When she stepped out, mirror to her back, Mike was waiting on the velvet bench outside, arms crossed.
He didn't speak at first. Just looked.
Clara turned slowly. The dress clung everywhere—breasts pushed up, waist cinched, ass rounded perfectly. The open back exposed the elegant line of her spine. She felt naked. Exposed. Alive.
Mike stood. "Turn again."
She did.
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. "Perfect."
His hand brushed her bare back—fingertips tracing the edge of the open fabric, light as a breath. Clara shivered. He didn't grab. Didn't push. Just let his palm rest flat against her lower spine for a second—warm, steady—then withdrew.
"See?" he murmured. "Not so scary."
She met his eyes in the mirror. Her nipples were hard against the silk. Visible. She crossed her arms instinctively.
Mike smiled—small, knowing. "You like it."
Before she could answer, a passerby outside the boutique—some hurried businessman on his phone—bumped the open doorframe. His to-go coffee tilted. Hot latte splashed across Mike's chest, soaking the Henley in seconds.
"Shit—sorry!" the man stammered, already backing away.
Mike didn't flinch. He just looked down at the stain, chuckled low. "No harm."
Then—without hesitation—he gripped the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion.
Clara's breath stopped.
His torso was sculpted—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, deep V-lines disappearing into his jeans, abs carved in perfect ridges. A faint scar curved along his left oblique—old, faded, somehow making him look more dangerous. Sweat from the warm store glistened on his skin. The coffee stain had left a faint red mark across his pecs, but it only highlighted the definition.
He stood there casually, shirt balled in one hand, completely unselfconscious.
The saleswoman froze mid-step with another dress. Even she stared.
Clara felt heat flood her face, her chest, between her legs. She couldn't look away. Fin was fit—lean, gym-regular—but this was different. Raw. Powerful. Built like he used his body as a weapon.
Mike caught her staring. His lips curved. "You okay there?"
She blinked, forced her eyes up. "Yeah. Just… the coffee. Must be hot."
"Burned a little," he said, shrugging one shoulder. The motion flexed his chest. "Worth it for the view."
He didn't cover up. Just stood there, letting her look. Letting the moment stretch.
Clara's mouth went dry. She turned back to the mirror—pretending to adjust the dress—but her reflection betrayed her: flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils blown wide.
Mike finally pulled on his jacket—zipped halfway, leaving his abs still visible—and nodded at the saleswoman. "We'll take the green one. And the burgundy blouse. Wrap them up."
Clara started to protest—"Mike, I can't—"
"You can," he said simply. "And you will. Consider it payment for losing the bet."
He paid in cash—crisp hundreds pulled from a slim wallet—and handed her the bag.
Outside, the night air felt colder against her heated skin. Mike walked her to the corner, hailed a cab for her.
"Get home safe," he said. No kiss. No touch. Just that steady gaze. "Wear the dress next time we meet. I want to see it in better light."
Clara slid into the cab, bag on her lap like contraband.
As the car pulled away, she glanced back.
Mike stood under a streetlamp—jacket open, abs still on display—watching her go with that same calm, predatory patience.
She leaned her head against the window, heart hammering.
Relief that nothing more had happened.
Disappointment that nothing more had happened.
And underneath it all, a dark, insistent whisper:
Next time.
She closed her eyes.
The lie to Fin was already forming in her mind.
And the green dress burned against her thigh like a promise.