Page 77 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“For what?” she asks.

“You’ll see,” I tell her. And I don’t give her any more explanation than that. When we get to the store, a little boutique in a local shopping district, Scarlett’s eyes light up. Like any other girl on the planet, it’s obvious she loves to shop. But this place, I specifically chose with her style in mind, isn’t high-end or name brand or monopolized. That wouldn’t be her.

This place is filled with colorful fabrics, skirts and dresses, hats, and handmade jewelry. And it’s obvious within seconds of walking inside that I hit the jackpot.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Scarlett says as she rummages through the racks. “I usually shop on my trips, as part of the experience. And honestly, most of my wardrobe comes from the places I visit,” she says, pulling out a pair of linen pants. I’m starting to think they are her go-to, which makes sense for tropical travel. They also look great on her. But pants are not the reason we are here.

“Try them on,” I tell her. “And this while you’re at it,” I add, handing her a strappy teal dress.

“Oh, that is cute. I will. A little retail therapy just might be exactly what I need to get out of my pity party funk,” she says, taking the dress from me.

“And this,” I say, grabbing a two-piece swimsuit off the rack as well and shoving it in her direction.

“And that will send me spiraling back into it,” she says with a giggle. “No, thank you.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“What’s wrong with it is that there are two pieces to it. Which means that all of this,” she circles her hand around her midsection. “Will be visible. Yeah, I’m going to have to pass.”

With that, she keeps sifting through the racks. A scowl tugs at my lips.

“What’s wrong with showing a little skin?” I ask.

Scarlett giggles again, this time a little higher pitched, insinuating that my question is audacious. “I’m sorry, have you seen me?”

Okay. Now that pisses me off. I reach out and grab Scarlett’s hand as she is reaching for another pair of pants, and she looks up at me. Then I tug her close, close enough that I can lower my voice. I’m not mad or angry. Not at her anyways. At the media. And the trolls. And the brainwashing perfectly beautiful women put up with every single day of their lives that has them questioning their bodies in the mirror and hiding underneath baggy clothing.

“Yes,” I tell her, my voice low. “I have seen you. All of you. And I think it’s criminal that you’ve looked in the mirror and don’t feel confident.”

“I have confidence,” she says with a little sass and a little indifference. “I don’t think I could do my job if I didn’t.”

“You have confidence in your job, yes, because you’re fucking phenomenal at what you do. But that’s different from having confidence in your own skin,” I state. And when she doesn’t say anything, I take her hand (which I am still holding onto) and the swimsuit and guide her to the dressing room.

“Try it on,” I tell her, and she blinks stubbornly.

“I’ll try on the dress,” she says. “But I haven’t worn a two-piece swimsuit since I was like seven years old, and I’m sure as hell not going to start right now. Now, if you don’t mind–” Scarlett starts walking through the door of the dressing room, but before she can close the door in my face, I barge in with her, locking it behind me.

“See, that’s the thing, sweetheart,” I tell her as she stares wide-eyed back up at me. “I do mind. I mind because I think you are gorgeous. Fucking stunning. And we’re not leaving here until you think that too.”

For a moment she just stares at me with challenging eyes. But after a moment of neither of us blinking, she gets the memo that I am very much not kidding right now.

She snorts and shakes her head. “Seriously. You seriously think that there’s anything you can do in the next five minutes that will re-wire twenty years of concrete feelings about my less than perfect body. And in that swimsuit? Good luck, Chuck. It’s not going to happen.”

And that sounds like a challenge to me. A challenge I am very willing to attempt. Five-minute timeframe. As Scarlett strips down to her panties and bra, reaching for the dress, I take it from her and hold up the swimsuit.

“No,” she says.

“Yes,” I demand.

She stares at me, and I stare back. Then she rolls her eyes and yanks it from my hand. “Fine. You want to see what all of this looks like crammed into this itty-bitty thing? Fine. But I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with me that suits like this are not made for bodies like mine.”

Scarlett tugs the red bottoms over her hips, and they glide with ease. I guessed the size, but it’s obvious I guessed right. They are high-waisted, dipping slightly at her navel, high-cut on the thighs so they don’t constrict any of her hip shape but instead showcase her curves for what they are. Not to mention, the ass is cheeky as fuck, which is just a bonus for me and makes my slacks tighter by the second.

Of course, being blind like every other woman on the planet, Scarlett doesn’t see it. She just mutters and shakes her head and lets out a persecuted sigh as she takes off her bra and replaces it with the top. It’s triangle cut but also made to fit her curves, covering them enough not to look forced but leaving enough skin to be sexy as hell.

“There,” she says, lifting her arms then slapping her sides. “I tried it on. Happy?”

I grab her by the hips and pull her back against my body, holding her in front of the mirror.