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“Shopping.”
She frowns. “I thought we were meeting your grandma?”
“We are.” I glance at my watch. “In about two hours. But you were pretty pissed about being underdressed last night, remember? I figured I ought to make it up to you.”
She looks down at her clothes—one of the dresses I bought her. “I’m not underdressed today.”
She’s right. That doesn’t change the fact that I want to take her shopping.
“You have six dresses, Sarah. And no shoes.”
She glares, proving that she’s back to her usual self. “I have shoes.”
I wrinkle my nose at the old trainers she’s wearing—sadly, one of her least offensive pairs. “These don’t count. Especially to meet my grandmother.”
“They’re fine.”
“You know my dad was a model through college, right?”
She frowns. “So?”
“He and his friend got into it because his mother, Liliya, used to own one of the top agencies in the world. They wanted spare cash, so it was a win-win. He moved on to owning a fashion empire because Liliya instilled his love of fashion into him.” I stare down at her shoes. “Sweetness, you’re going to give my poor grandma a heart attack with those.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, asshole.”
67
SARAH
When I was little, I used to imagine that my father would show up one day and sweep me away from my foster homes to his castle somewhere in Italy, where I could eat pizza every day. I was very fond of pizza, and with my dark hair and eyes, as well as my skin, quick to tan, I think I could be half Italian.
I certainly don’t look like my mother, from the faded picture I still have in my wallet. She was petite, round, and blonde, with hooded green eyes. The only thing I potentially got from her is the boobs.
In those childhood reveries I would have hundreds, if not thousands of pretty dresses, a walk-in closet full of them, bigger than the one inThe Princess Diaries, and with jewels, too. But my imaginary father would still take me shopping and let me buy whatever I wanted, because he had an unlimited bank balance, just for good measure.
Those fantasies stopped when I stopped dreaming, around age twelve. I also stopped caring about clothes soon after, because anything remotely pretty emphasized my breasts, which garnered me unwanted attention.
Yet here I am, with a dark-haired man attached to a seemingly bottomless credit card. Maybe those dreams were prophetic after all. At least he’s not making me call him daddy.
“Do you have to walk so fast?” I grumble.
I can barely walk, my sensitive thighs chafing at every step.
Marius’s arms are loaded with bags, all of which are filled with clothes. For me.
I didn’t try a single thing on, but that didn’t stop him.
“You still need shoes, and we’re running out of time,” he reminds me. “Plus, you could totally do with some new bras. Yours flatten your tits, which is a fucking crime.”
“I don’t need bras,” I protest.
Just like I said I didn’t need shirts. Or skirts. Or that super soft, fluffy sweater that I might not need, but definitely wanted before I took a peek at the price tag.
Who spends three hundred bucks on asweater?
Marius Goltz, that’s who.
I argued against the pants most of all. Pants never fit me—Violet’s pair being the exception. I might as well have been talking to Louis. The cat listens to me more than this guy. There are five pairs of pants in the bag. I’ll have to return them, because I really hate wasting money. Even his.
