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“That was sweet, Dash. Wrong. But sweet.”
“Come on, Paige. Try on the dress. You don’t like it then we’ll leave, and I’ll never say anything about it again.”
Her hazel eyes delve into mine. Whatever she sees is enough.
“Okay. But, if I don’t like it, I’m not even coming out of the dressing room.”
“Deal.”
A small bell rings when we enter the shop. The place is colorful, and a helpful shop-girl finds the dress in Paige’s size. I sit on a purple chair, trying not to think too hard on the fact that Paige is undressing with just a curtain between us.
I expect her to either pull back the curtain and be wearing the dress or step out and have her jeans and tank top back on. Instead, just her head peeks out, and she smiles hesitantly at me even though there’s uncertainty in her eyes.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask.
“The dress is everything I could ever want a dress to be.” She pauses, and I keep quiet, sensing she’s got more to say. “But I still hate my scar.”
“Will you let me see it?”
With a last wide-eyed glance past me out to the relatively empty store, Paige pushes the curtain fully open and moves to stand in front of me, hands nervously smoothing down the silky green skirt.
My breathing stutters, and I have to blink a few times to make sure this isn’t just a mirage. Paige stands barefoot with her toned legs seeming to go on for miles before they reach the bottom of the dress. And what a dress. It’s short. So fucking short that I want to find the designer and shake their hand. Maybe on other girls it would’ve fallen lower, but with Paige’s height, the fabric ends just a few inches below her pert ass. I get to drool over the curve of that ass as she rotates in a slow circle to display every inch of the dress.
When she turns her back to me, I have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching out. The front wasn’t low cut, it could almost be considered modest, but the back is a set of crisscrossing strings that show off even more of her glorious skin.
“I know. It’s gross.” The defeat in Paige’s voice drags me out of thoughts involving bending her over and pushing that swaying skirt up the last little bit.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Paige? That dress is amazing on you.”
She turns around so fast the material balloons up, almost giving me a peak underneath. I stifle a moan of disappointment when it settles back into place.
“Of course the dress is beautiful. That’s not what’s up for discussion.” Her face is red as her eyes dart around and her hand spreads flat on the side of her thigh.
Oh yeah. Her scar.
“Let me see. I forgot to look.”
“Forgot to look? It’s like a flashing neon sign,” she mutters this while turning again, putting her side on display. When her hand slips away, I finally get a view of the offending bit of skin.
To be honest, I thought she was likely exaggerating. I figured it wouldn’t be too far off from the little slash in her eyebrow. Odd, but quirky.
However, when Paige claimed her scar was big, she wasn’t lying.
The damaged tissue is a thick pink line beginning just above her knee and disappearing somewhere under the skirt. The healthy skin around it puckers slightly where it meets the mark. It’s not delicate. It’s not elegant or romantic.
But it’s just a scar.
“Does it hurt?” Somehow, one of my hands got free, and I find myself cupping the back of her thigh, my thumb resting just next to the damaged area, not quite touching it.
“I use lotion to keep the skin from getting stiff.” She talks in a hushed voice, making this moment intimate. “Sometimes my leg aches. Like, the bone and the muscles. Exercise helps with that. Running.”
I nod, eyes focused on where my fingers circle her leg. That skin is smooth, soft against my palm. With just a slight movement, I could slip my hand up higher to disappear under her skirt like her scar does. Better yet, if I tighten my grip and tug her closer, I could kiss my way up under the fabric until I find the center of her.
“Dash?”
When I glance up, her eyes are full of confused curiosity.
“Get the dress.”
