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And he’s wasting shit tons today. Thousands. Hell, maybe tens of thousands.
Part of me expected him to pick the kind of obviously revealing, tight clothing men drool over. I could have snapped, then. But like with the package he sent me, his choices are sensible, taking my comfort and taste into consideration. The kinds of things I could have chosen myself, if I had the budget. And patience for shopping. Then again, if I had a bank balance like Marius’s, I likely would enjoy it more.
“You could try to look a little happier,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pressing a kiss to the side of my cheeks.
He’s been doing that a lot today as we walked along the sidewalk, and I haven’t missed the curious looks from the passersby.
I don’t recognize anyone, but that doesn’t mean much, given the extent of my social circle. There are plenty of younger people, maybe even students. His plan to establish me as his fake girlfriend in the eye of the town is going along swimmingly.
“Your man is taking you on a shopping trip. Isn’t that what every girl wants?”
“Every gold digger, maybe.” I roll my eyes. “And you’re not my man.”
A reminder for both of us. Fake dating is one thing, but with all the sex, and his caveman-ish tendency to proclaim I belong to him, it’s easy to get a little too comfortable. I don’t want to get swept up in this farce.
“I’ll prove it to you again very soon. Here’s a lingerie store. We definitely should be seen in one of those.”
I appreciate the reminder that heiscalculating the best way to act like a boyfriend. None of this is real.
The shop is lovely, with feminine touches everywhere, and the scent of flowers in the air. I see so many gorgeous things in every style, from flirty to sporty, and at the back, flimsy little pieces of fabric barely held together by strings.
“Good morning. My girlfriend needs to check her size and buy a new collection.”
A pretty older woman’s wrinkled eyes brighten like she’s been waiting for those words her whole life.
“Of course, of course, this way, miss.”
She ushers me into a changing room, practically pushing me into it before I can protest.
“If you would remove the top of your dress—I’ll be back shortly.”
I sigh.
Marius is right, my bras do flatten my boobs—because I choose them to do just that. But at the same time, there’s no denying that they’ve been on the tighter side—and I don’t like the side boobs I get with some of them. So I do as I’m told.
To her credit, the shopkeeper—Pauline, according to her pink name tag—triesnot to grimace at my bra. But she fails miserably.
“Right. Well, dear, I’m just going to measure you, and we’ll try a few samples to determine your size, yes?”
A white tape’s out and around me before I can reply.
Pauline’s efficient—she brings me three bras, and informs me that my size in her shop is an 80DD.
I can’t deny it’s a lot more comfortable.
“That means you will likely vary between a 75E and 85D, depending on the make. Here at Minionette, we only carry this brand, so you can be sure of your size.”
I wish she’d said that where Marius can’t hear, but he’s taken a stool close to the changing room, with a coffee table full of magazines—the husbands’ seat, no doubt.
He’s unstoppable. I thought he was bad about pants, but he gets dozens of ensembles. And this time, he’s just as sexist as I expect him to be in his choices.
“Really?” I groan, as he shoves another handful of open crotch and cupless lingerie on the counter.
“Oh, yeah.Really.”
Thankfully, he also picked sport bras and a few monochromatic things.
“Don’t we have to meet your grandmother soon?” I point out.
