A beat.
“Why?”
I snatch the light cardigan I’d set aside and clutch it across my middle on instinct. “Because I said so.”
His voice drops, low enough to slide through me. “That dress isn’t armor,cara.”
My pulse stumbles.
“It’s also not an invitation.”
“Open the door.”
“No.”
The handle turns.
I stare at it in disbelief. “Lorenzo?—”
The door opens anyway. He steps inside and closes it behind him before I can stop him, and suddenly the fitting room feels half its original size. My heart slams once, hard.
He sees the dress first.
I watch it happen—the slight stillness, the way his gaze takes in the pale blue, the soft line of the skirt, the bare skin of my shoulders and collarbones. He looks at me like he’s forgotten every other language he speaks.
Which would be flattering if it weren’t so dangerous.
I tighten my hold on the cardigan bunched across my stomach. “Get out.”
He doesn’t move.
“Lorenzo.”
“You look beautiful.”
The words land too softly. Too sincerely. And I hate that my breath catches anyway.
“You don’t get to walk in here.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “But I did.”
“That is not the winning argument you think it is.”
A shadow of a smile touches his mouth, then vanishes just as quickly. His eyes drop to the thin straps at my shoulders. To the place where the fabric curves over my chest. Back to my face.
And then lower again.
Not low enough to discover anything. My grip on the cardigan keeps the line of the dress broken, the shape beneath it obscured. But low enough to make me intensely aware of every inch of skin the sundress leaves bare.
I angle my body, turning one shoulder toward him. Henotices but instead of commenting, he lifts one hand slowly, giving me time to stop him. I should. Instead, I stand there breathing too shallowly while he brushes his knuckles down the strap at my shoulder, so light it could almost be an accident.
“You like this one,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I swallow. “Because.”
