"We know," they say in unison.
Harper disappears again, and I'm left with Simone, who's looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting case study.
"The lavender was better," I say.
"I agree."
"But the black is—" I stop, because I don't know how to finish that sentence without sounding like I'm having inappropriate thoughts about my employee and fake wife.
"Memorable?" Simone suggests.
"That's one word for it."
"Mr. Kade, if I may be direct?"
"I suspect you will be regardless."
"Your wife looks beautiful in everything. The question is: which dress makes you proudest to have her on your arm tonight?"
I think about that. About walking into the Grandview with Harper beside me. About the photos, the whispers, the way people will look at us and try to figure out how the hell the vicious, deal-mongering Darth Vader of Food Media ended up with someone so warm and alive.
"The lavender,” I say. "Definitely the lavender.”
Simone smiles. "Good choice."
Harper emerges one more time, back in the pale purple-ish dress, and I'm prepared this time. I tell myself to give appropriate feedback. Professional but appreciative. The kind of compliment that?—
Oh shit. I stop.
The zipper is stuck.
Harper's trying to reach behind her back, stretching awkwardly, and the dress is half-zipped, showing a slice of skin that I should not be noticing.
"Simone?" Harper calls. "Can you—oh."
Simone's phone is ringing. She glances at it, then at us, and makes a decision.
"Excuse me one moment. Fashion emergency with another client." She gestures to me. "Mr. Kade can help with the zipper."
Then she's gone, disappearing into the back room before either of us can protest, and Harper and I are stuck there, staring at each other.
"I can wait for Simone,” she says.
"The zipper's stuck. You'll be here all night."
"I'm sure she'll be right?—“
“I’ll handle it. Turn around, Beaumont, and stop being so damn stubborn.”
She hesitates at first, then turns around, presenting me with her back.
I approach slowly, like she's a skittish animal that might bolt. Up close, I can smell her perfume—something light and honey-suckled that I've started associating with morning coffee and late-night texts. The zipper is indeed stuck, caught on the fabric. I reach for it, and my knuckles brush against her spine.
She inhales sharply.
“Too rough?” I ask.
"It's fine. Just... cold hands."
