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It was actually kind of tempting. That was certainly one way to make Hunter jealous—but no, no, I wasn’t going to be that petty. I was going to rise above such things.
Well, a little way above such things.
No harm in making him see what he was missing, after all.
“Actually, I need a different Rolodex,” I said. “Got any recommendations for a place to get a nice outfit and hairdo, short notice?”
Martha’s eyes lit up. “Do I ever!” She stood, grabbing my arm. “Come on, let’s go snag the Rolls!”
“You said that was for emergencies,” I pointed out as she pulled me along like a fish on the line.
Martha cast a look back at me and my ensemble and shook her head with a pitying grin. “Ally, by any definition, this is an emergency.”
#
It was an hour since we’d pulled into the swanky store parking lot with a screech of tires that would have made an action hero envious, and we were only now all the way to the dressing room stage of the proceedings.
“Show me what you got!” Martha’s impatient voice called out from the other side of the doors.
“Give me a sec!” I pulled the hem to straighten it and stepped out.
“Oh, honey, no, no, no,” Martha said immediately.
My face fell.
“The A-line is a good cut for you!” she added quickly. “Really emphasizes your good points. And the silk? Thailand-sourced, top notch, points for that. It’s just the color. Saffron yellow? Who do you think you are, Viola Davis?”
I looked in the mirror again and conceded that she had a point. The yellow made my skin look like I was a jaundice victim.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked, retreating back into the changing room.
Martha snorted. “What, I can’t know things?”
“Of course you can,” I said, slightly muffled as I pulled the dress over my head. “I just expect you to know, like, car stuff, and secret tips for getting a few dozen guys mooning over you.”
“Oh, I got that too.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “But just ‘cause I go with the comfortable and sexually intimidating wardrobe of tank tops, dungarees, and combat boots these days doesn’t mean I didn’t have a fashionista past.”
“Did you?” I asked, trying for the life of me to picture it.
“No,” she admitted. “But hey, you don’t have to eat a pie to know how to roll the crust.”
I pulled on Dress #2, one I’d picked for the ethereal ruffles cascading down the skirt.
“So how come there’s all this big fire for a new dress?” Martha asked. “I mean, don’t you have any nice outfits you could ship from home?” Her voice turned teasing. “Or has Hunter seen those already?”
Hunter had seen a lot more of me than my dresses, but I wasn’t in the mood for Hunter-related banter. “I can actually make decisions without thinking about Hunter’s reaction, thanks.”
I slammed the door open harder than it probably warranted.
Martha considered my outfit for a few seconds, then shook her head regretfully. “The color’s better, and you almost make those ruffles work, but damn girl, we need to leave the mermaids back in the eighties with all the other mistakes of that decade.”
I snorted. “If there’s any room.”
I clomped back into the dressing room and pulled the bolt, before mournfully contemplating my remaining options. There were a lot of them, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy to keep getting shot down. Maybe this had been a bad idea.
“Hey, though,” Martha said in a voice that was clearly meant to be cheering me up. “At least the bimbo he’s dating now looks like you. Shows how hung-up on you he is.”
“That bimbo is my sister,” I said.
There was an awkward silence, and then Martha cleared her throat. “Oh.”
I halfway expected her to jump into an impassioned defense of her hero, but she stayed silent. I guess she knew there were some things you just couldn’t defend.
I was weirdly…disappointed?...about it, though. Like I had maybe thought that Martha would have some perfect excuse for Hunter, and then I could stop being so angry at him and maybe even stop yearning for him and maybe, finally, have a normal client-advertiser relationship without all this Romeo and Juliet bullshit.
Yeah, and pigs would fly over the moon.
I made some last minute adjustments to the criss-crossing shoulder-straps of Dress #3 and braced myself for another round of fashion scorn.
I came out, and Martha’s mouth fell open.
“That bad?” I said, wincing.
Martha shook her head, eyes as wide as a goldfish. “Girl, I am seriously considering switching teams.”
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