Page 92

Layla's voice is low.

Warning.

I glance at her. She's giving me a look.

Enough.

She’s probably right.

Unfortunately, I'm not finished.

The saleswoman tries again.

“Mr. Knight, I assure you, that isn't what happened.”

“Really?”

“No. Of course not.”

I look at the emerald gown.

“Miss Hawthorne asked about that dress?”

“Yes, but as I explained, the proportions⁠—”

“The proportions?”

Layla goes rigid beside me.

Wrong fucking answer.

I look at the mannequin.

Then at Layla. And for once, I don't bother pretending not to notice her body.

Her figure is infinitely more interesting than the plastic one currently wearing the dress.

Soft waist.

Full hips.

Generous breasts.

Curves that deserve considerably more than a wispy piece of fabric designed to hang from a mannequin.

“That dress wouldn't suit her, anyway.”

Layla's head snaps toward me.

The saleswoman looks almost triumphant. For approximately one second.

“The color would,” I continue. “The dress wouldn't.”

The triumph disappears. I turn toward Layla.

“It's not good enough.”

Her brow furrows.