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“Sure, Kayla. Can we go in now?”
He has to ring a bell. This is the kind of shop where they sell clothes, but it’s locked, and you have to ring a bell. It’s just…dresses.
A petite woman hurries to the door, opening it wide for us and stepping to the side so we can walk in.
It’s a small boutique shop, with the first floor and what looks like a mezzanine. On one side, a black sign says His and on the opposite end of the room a gold sign says Hers. It has twenty or so dresses hanging far enough from each other, a whole person could stand between two hangers. Sure different from the thrift shop clothes all bunched together, where you grab one piece on a hanger and ten will come with it.
“Mr. White, hello. I’m Suzanna, we…” She looks up at him, her mouth hanging open as she takes him in, and I know I’ve already found the person I’m going to fight with in this shop.
Holy shit, she might as well drool at this point. Her gaze drags all the way from his brushed-back blond hair and black glasses, down to his suit hugging his shoulders and chest perfectly, all the way to his shoes.
Breathe, Kayla. If you punch a bitch the first time you’re allowed out of his house, it’ll never happen again.
“We?” Nate wakes her up with a single, unimpressed syllable.
She giggles like a fourteen-year-old. “We spoke on the phone. I’ll be your shopping assistant today. It’s just us in the shop, so please make yourself at home.”
Walking to a counter, she comes back with a tray holding two flutes of champagne. Nate pulls his wallet out of his pocket, drops a black credit card on the tray, and takes the flutes, offering me one.
“You like champagne, right, little sunflower?”
That stupid nickname being uttered in front of Suzanna makes my face heat.
I flatten my lips, nodding, even though the truth is written all over me. I’ve never had champagne in my life. And when I take a sip, I’m ready to spit it back out right away.
This shit tastes disgusting.
Nate notices my pinched face, and a smile tips the corner of his lips. He takes a sip of his, his mouth twisting, and puts the flute back on the tray.
“Terrible,” he says casually. He takes the flute from my hands and puts it back too. “Don’t drink this, baby. It’s not nice.”
Suzanna flushes. “I am so sorry, Mr. White. It’s the same one I always serve. Can I get you anything else?”
“Dresses.”
She turns away, hurrying to the counter to rid herself of the tray, and Nate uses the occasion to wink at me. Just like that, I know the champagne was fine, certainly to his tastes. He just didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable not liking it.
The woman comes back to me, a newfound fake smile plastered on her face.
“You must be Mrs. White.” So she knew all along that the man is married, and she still didn’t stop herself from ogling him.
Instead of letting the last name raise my hackles as usual, I simply nod.
“Please, follow me. We have two collections at the front. Those are all next year’s spring/summer, so you’ll look perfect wearing them at the end of this summer. I’ve got Met Gala, and the latest summer/spring Paris Fashion Week from June. I know temperatures are starting to drop at night, so just to let you know we have some winter collections at the back.” Her mouth twists. “They’re this year’s collection, of course. So, they’re a bit old, but please, don’t be embarrassed to ask. I sold plenty of January fall/winter Copenhagen just last week.”
Embarrassed to ask? I don’t even know what the fuck she’s talking about. Does the collection’s year really matter?
I can hear Nate behind me picking up a call, and my anxiety rises. I have survived being shot, beaten up, and almost murdered many times in my life, but I’m near a panic attack in a boutique shop next to a woman who talks fashion.
She caresses the dresses as she goes, and I walk alongside her, internally begging for a translator.
“Here we’ve got Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Carolina Herrera. I sold the Versace from the Met yesterday, but between you and me,” she giggles to herself, “it was the worst one. Anything catching your eye?”
The fact that she’s now directly asking me a question makes me sweat. “Erm…”
I eye the dresses. They look like gowns. I thought we were only going to a business dinner.
“Do you have something a little more”—I look at my own jeans and plain white t-shirt—“casual?”
