“We call them Goodwill stores back home.” At this, his head jerks my way, and he looks at me as though I’ve grown a second head. A much uglier second head.
“My goodwill is something that’s diminishing by the second,” he mutters.
“It’s one of the biggest in London,” I say, ignoring him to look at the window display.Wouldn’t do to laugh at him.
There’s a leather sofa in the long window, a fluffy afghan throw over the back. The aging credenza next to it houses a tea set with a garish pattern, white crocheted doilies sitting under each piece. There are literally hundreds of stores like this around London, but some of them—especially the ones closer to Oliver’s hotel—are too fancy for my current purposes. For example, the thrift store in Notting Hill had a Boss suit in the window for seventy quid!
So I expanded my search to include anywhere that might stock the opposite of designer wear in my quest to get him back for the dress. The very lovely dress that made me feel like a supermodel, but that’s not the point. Because the point is, he’s not supposed tomake decisions on my behalf. Even if he thinks those decisions will benefit me. I choose my own clothes and pay my own way.
This is just a small reality check for the man, especially as I’ve received notification that my biometric card is in the mail. I’ve been granted my visa—weeks earlier than the forecast. I haven’t told Oliver, and if Ariana, the immigration lawyer, notified him, he hasn’t said.
We haven’t ironed out what happens after. Maybe we’re both trying not to burst this bubble. But we need to discuss what our relationship will look like. I’ll tell him about my visa. Soon. I’ll have to. But today, I guess I wanted to prove that things won’t change.
“This is unacceptable, Eve.”
“Too bad, so sad. Get your butt out of the car.”
“This was not what we agreed.”
“I don’t remember agreeing you could pick out a dress for me, and don’t invoke the stylist, because that’s just a technicality.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Hello!” I singsong. “Same here.”
“No, Eve, you are shit stirring,” he growls.
I press a hand to my offended chest.Moi?
“Yes, you! Causing trouble. Having fun at my expense and—”
“Sir, we’re parked in a loading zone.” Oliver frowns Ted’s way as he adds, “I reckon we might get clamped, maybe even impounded?”
Good one, Ted.Oliver climbs slowly from the car.
“You’re so tetchy.” That sounded a little too gleeful. The way he glares at me says he heard it too. “It’s not like I’d let you go to this thing looking stupid.”
“The fact that I’m here does not mean I will be wearing clothing purchased out of ...” He turns his head, glances at the storefront, and apparently pretends not to know what it is.“That place.”
“No.” I hold up a finger. “No givesies backsies. You said—”
“In this instance, it would betakesies backsies,” he utters with a ghost of a smile. “It’s starting to rain. Let’s go inside and get this over with.”
I almost break out the happy dance when I remember something. “Wait.” Oliver turns, his hand on the door handle. “Say cheese!” I snap a pic with my phone.
“What was that for?”
“Pictures or it never happened, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“The only thing I fancy is getting this over with.” An old-fashioned bell chimes above the door as Oliver pushes it.
This is going better than I ever imagined.
Shit stirring?
Troublemaking?
Enjoying the heck out of myself?
