good enough to show Zach.
Not because they’re not beautiful. They are. Gorgeous, glittery gowns line the walls of the giant
change room, mixed with more sedate tulle and crepe gowns. All beautiful, and all making me feel
like I want to tear them off within seconds. “Isn’t there anything made of cotton? Just plain cotton?
There’s got to be something?” I ask desperately.
The woman, not a seam or a lock of silver hair out of place, lifts her nose and sniffs at me.
“Evening gowns are not made of cotton. If you want a t-shirt, I’m sure you can find it elsewhere.
Here, I only deal with couture.”
Oh, she wants to be snippy? “Are you telling me, Ma’am, that couture designers don’t use
cotton?”
She sniffs again and frowns. At least, I think it’s a frown. Her forehead doesn’t move, but there’s
a little twitch in her eyelid that makes me think she’s done with me. “Mr. Lee instructed me to prepare
for an evening event.” There’s that eye twitch again. “I suppose I’ll have to inform him that nothing I
have offered you has been suitable, and he’ll have to go elsewhere to clothe you.”
Crap, she’s got me. I can’t handle more of this. I’ve never shopped like this, and if it weren’t for
the type of clothing on offer, I could get used to it. No endless racks of clothes. No cramped change
rooms. No crowds. Just one snooty woman and Zach and I in what looks like a bridal salon, without
the wedding dresses. It’s quiet and private, and I would really enjoy it under different circumstances.
I pull my patience around me like a cloak and try to explain. “Look, I have sensitive skin. If I
wear any of these, I’ll end up hurting all night. Can you please, please, find me something else.”
She smooths her chignon, “There’s not much available in your size.” I don’t miss the dig, but I
don’t give a shit if she’s judging me. I just want something to wear that won’t make me want to peel
my skin off or embarrass Zach.
It’s looking like I’ll have to settle for one of the two.
“We can’t all be chihuahua sized,” I say with a hint of snark and watch a smile crack her
porcelain skin.
“Thank you,” she breathes, putting a hand to her stomach and bony hips. The woman took it as a
compliment, who am I to correct her? She throws the curtain open as she leaves, and I’m left standing
there in a too-tight satin robe, staring at my boss.
“Uh, maybe I should just close this.” I reach out to snag the curtain, but he shakes his head curtly.
