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“Shopping,” I say dryly. “Which we will do silently.”
I don’t miss the way her face continues to sour in the rearview mirror.
But to her credit, she doesn’t say a word until I pull into a premium parking spot along the Magnificent Mile. White stone buildings rear overhead as we’re greeted at the door of a boutique clothing shop by Minka, a tall, willowy woman with platinum blonde locks far too perfect to be natural.
“Ms. Zanetti informed me that you would be arriving today. Welcome, Mr. Egorov.”
“Good God,” Wren whispers from behind me, gawking up at the awnings and the window displays teeming with gold and silver.
“What are you interested in seeing today?”
“The ladies’ section first,” I instruct gruffly. I start striding fast before Wren can bombard me with more questions, but she’s right behind me, practically jogging to keep up.
“The ladies section?” she bleats. “Is this trip for me?”
“I have a full wardrobe and excellent taste. Draw your own conclusions.”
She grinds to a halt and looks down at her outfit critically. “My clothes are fine! And even if—I mean, these aren’t my best. But I have more options if you’d just let me go back to my damn apartment.”
“I’d hardly call those ‘options.’” I follow her eyes to see her checking out her reflection in the window and, to my discomfort, I find that I very much agree she looks perfectly fine. Edible, even. “Everything half-decent was brought to the penthouse for you.”
“You’re an asshole.”
I sigh noisily. “Only you would find a way to turn a shopping spree into an insult.”
“It is an insult,” she insists. “You’re saying I have bad taste.”
“I’m not saying anything. I would have gladly sat this trip out. It was Bee who insisted I take you shopping.”
That stops her in her tracks. Those pretty eyes of hers widen, just a little. “She did? But… why?”
“Fuck if I know. Her bleeding heart probably just wants to make sure you feel comfortable. Pampered. I assure you, this was only ever meant to be a gesture of goodwill. And it certainly wasn’t my goodwill being gestured.”
She twists in place, mouth going side to side with uncertainty. She glances over to Minka, who’s looking into the distance a few yards away and doing a professional job of pretending she isn’t eavesdropping on every last word.
“Oh, okay,” Wren concedes with a sigh. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to get a few new things.”
I make a mental note to ask Bee what the two of them did yesterday. What they talked about. Something has shifted between them. I’m not sure what and I’m not sure how; I just know it has. The mere fact that Bee had insisted I take Wren shopping today is proof enough.
I love Bee to death, but the truth is, despite what I just said to Wren, she’s no bleeding heart. In another life, maybe she would’ve been. But when you grow up in a family of sharks, you learn how to swim in bloody waters.
Wren moves towards a collection of handmade cashmere sweaters. She goes straight for the ivory palette, fingers the fabric longingly, and then moves on to the taupe.
Minka moves forward enthusiastically. “You may hand me anything you like, ma’am. It would be my pleasure to carry your selections for you.”
“Oh.” Wren looks very taken back. “Um, that’s nice of you.”
“Wonderful. Snowstorm or desert sand? Or would you like to take both?”
Wren’s lips tic upwards like she’s trying not to smile. “Hold on a minute.” She pulls apart the sweater and starts shaking it out in search of something.
“What are you doing?” I ask while Minka looks on with all the patience that I don’t have.
“Looking for a price tag.”
“Our items don’t, er… don’t carry price tags, ma’am.”
Wren drops the sweater and blinks, confused. “Huh? What? Why not?”
