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We spend hours on that one street. In each shop, he leaves it up to the women working there to find complementary outfits, which I then try on and he either approves or vetoes.
“What do I need all of these for?” I ask later that day. We’re standing in yet another shop while I try on my hundredth outfit of the day. My feet have gone numb from standing in so many different pairs of heels. Apparently, every single outfit needs its own accompanying style of shoe.
I’ve obviously been dressing wrong my entire life. The thing is, I like the way I dress. Don’t get me wrong, some of the dresses I have tried on are beautiful. Gorgeous gowns that hug my curves and enhance my cleavage, and make me look sexier than I ever have before. Along with shorter numbers for nights when Conor takes me to the club, that have him dismissing the staff so we can have a quickie in the changing rooms.
However, the pantsuits, fancy jackets and skirts that someone described as day wear are… I don’t even have words. What is wrong with a good old pair of worn-in jeans? Is it a crime for women with money to leave the house without looking like they’re about to stride down the catwalk?
“You’re dating an O’Shea,” Conor explains, as if that’s answer enough. “When we’re out together, you’re an extension of me and my family. It’s important you look the part.”
I chew on my bottom lip before asking, “Am I ever going to meet your family?”
I can see Conor’s reflection in the dressing room mirror, so I catch the tensing of his muscles and the slight frown that tugs on his lips before he vaguely says, “Maybe one day.”
Perhaps it’s because we’re in a brightly lit dressing room, but it bolsters me enough to pry further. “Do you not get on with your family?”
Conor’s eyes snap to mine through the mirror, and I freeze. “It’s complicated.” He holds my gaze, and when I don’t lower mine or give him the easy out, he continues, “I’m the youngest of seven children. It’s not always easy.”
I can appreciate that it must have been difficult growing up. I’m an only child and would have loved a sibling or two, but seven sounds like a recipe for disaster. Everyone fighting over the same toys and vying for mom and dad’s attention… no, thanks.
Running a hand over the smooth fabric of my dress, I fake disinterest as I ask, “And you all work together… for O’Shea Corps?”
“Something like that.”
Insightful.
“Other than your nightclubs, what else is O’Shea Corps responsible for?”
My question is met with prolonged silence, and when I dare to flick my gaze to him, I find Conor watching me with narrowed eyes.
“What’s with the interrogation?” he asks in a chilly voice.
“I was just curious.” I give a casual shrug of my shoulder, mustering the courage to turn and face him. “We’re living together, and I want to know about your work and family.”
“There’s nothing you need to know.” His words are said with a finality, effectively slamming the door shut in my face.
At dinner that night, I try again with a slightly different tactic. “How is everything with the nightclubs?” I enquire, keeping my focus on my steak as I cut it up and delicately place a piece in my mouth. I’m wearing a dress that costs more than the combined rent amount I’ve paid since moving to Boston. The thought of spilling red wine or dripping steak juice onto it has me wanting to tuck my napkin along the front of my dress like a five-year-old.
“Fine. Same old.”
“How exactly does one manage a bunch of nightclubs?” I ask with a teasing smile.
He doesn’t reciprocate. “Lots of delegating, phone calls, and boring meetings.”
“Do you enjoy what you do?”
I jump out of my seat as his hand smacks against the tabletop, drawing attention from nearby tables as he pierces me with a sinister glare. “Why all the questions today, Mia?”
My gulp is audible, although I barely hear it over my heart slamming against my ribcage.
“I’m just trying to get to know you. We live together, and I feel like I know nothing about you. You don’t talk to me about your work, or your family, or really anything.”
“Because you don’t need to know about that stuff. In fact, it’s better for you if you don’t know.”
Better for me? What the hell does that mean?
Conor’s at work and I’m aimlessly wandering around the apartment, feeling unsettled since we got home from dinner last night. I keep making excuses for him—he’s a private person, he doesn’t want to talk about work in his downtime, and he’s not close to his family—yet this niggling feeling inside me says I need to stop.
His comment from last night about how I’m better off not knowing anything concerning him keeps coming back to me. It’s the driving force for why I finally say fuck it and do something I have never done before—go searching through his personal things.
