Page 80 of My Faire Lady

Scarlet and I make eye contact, and as her lip quirks at the edge, I bite back a laugh.

“Are you sure you don’t mind shipping the dress for me?” I say to Kelsey.

She lifts the camera and brings it to her eyes, snapping photos of Scarlet in the gown. “Of course not.”

“Don’t forget the⁠—”

“Tracking and insurance and a signature upon arrival.” She peeks at me over the lens. “Don’t worry, Lottie, I got it.”

I gnaw on my lip and study the piece—the stitches that could be straighter, seams that could be tighter. The thought of shipping it off to be judged carves a hole in my chest. Strangers will be inspecting my work, comparing it to others that have far more training and experience and grit than I do.

“You have that look,” Scarlet says, as Kelsey crosses the room and pulls out the garment box.

“What look?”

Scarlet steps off the podium, and even without the added height, she still has two inches on me. The cape drags behind her, and the early morning light casting through the windows catches the diamonds strung across her chest.

She hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my head until our gazes lock. Her voice drops, low enough for Kelsey not to hear. “You carry around a mask, like the armor I wear for the jousts. You want everyone to know you’re okay, to think you’re happy. But sometimes it slips, and it’s subtle, but I notice. I see you.” Her fingertips brush mine. “When Kelsey leaves, why don’t you lock up the shoppe for the day?”

My brow furrows. “But we open in an hour.”

She shrugs. “I think we can take a day to celebrate, don’t you?”

Her eyes dance over me, and my heart squeezes, tumbling around my ribcage.

Kelsey clears her throat. “Does this mean I don’t have to come back for work?”

“You deserve a day off, too,” Scarlet says, reaching toward the clasp at the back of the cape.

The corner of Kelsey’s lips curls up, and she gives me a sideways glance, the way she used to when we were children and her mind was scheming. “Now that you’re done working on this, are you coming back home at night?”

Scarlet and I share a look, and Kelsey’s grin grows feral. I know what she thinks about me staying here at all hours of the day, how she must think Scarlet and I are sharing a bed at night. Little does she know, Scarlet has slept on the couch, not daring to come into the bedroom until the sun fully rises.

I shift on my feet. “I⁠—”

“I asked her to stay,” Scarlet says, weaving her fingers through mine. “I hope that’s okay?”

My chest stalls, sputtering.

“More than okay.” Kelsey smiles down at our hands. “It’s good to finally see her happy.”

Cold washes over me. Finally?

I’ve been happy, haven’t I?

But that’s it.

That’s the mask I’ve been wearing for years, so embedded in my life that until now, it’s been a second skin. I’ve burdened myself with everyone else’s happiness. I’ve taught myself that if I press a band aid across my hurt and pain and anger, I’ll spare everyone else.

But at what cost?

Scarlet releases my hand, and I study her through the gaps in my hair as Kelsey eases the cape from her shoulders. Scarlet sees right through me, and with her, I’ve never felt the need to pretend. She’s never expected me to be anything I’m not—nor needed more than I can give.

When grandmother would tell me stories, she spoke about this easy, deep-rooted happiness. One that always seemed to evade me.

I used to think it was the early stages of dementia, when she would talk about how one day I’d find someone who took nothing, but gave everything. That the lines between happiness and love would blur. That I’d find someone who collects the parts I don’t like about myself and cradles them like they were rare, priceless treasures.

And as Scarlet’s eyes find mine, this is exactly what she was talking about.