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“Scarlet, I have your husband here. Would you like me to send him through?”
“My husband?” I ask, peeking around the divide.
“Hello,wife.” Lance greets me as we lock eyes. I gape at the assistant by his side, then swallow around the dryness in my throat.
Sure, just send him on in here!Why did you even ask?Her cheeks are pink, and she watches Lance as he places his Nells bag on the chaise lounge along with his grey suit jacket. He starts to roll up his shirtsleeves, and I roll my eyes.Oh, please.
“Oh my god, did she say husband? He did not?” Izzy is hysterical on the other end of the phone.
I roll my lips, goose bumps skittering up my arms and across my chest, setting my nipples into pointed peaks.
“Izzy, shh,” I whisper, palming my forehead. “I’m so annoyed at you right now. I have a nipple-on from pure stress.” I cover them with my palms and pull back on my T-shirt.
One appointment in eight months with my hairdresser, and I’m telling her about my tits.
You don’t get out much, do you?
Asshole.
I hear wheezing on the other end of the line and shake my head. Useless.
“Let him in!” Izzy begs. “Mess with him. Do not send him away.”
“No!”
“Scarlet, he thinks he can walk into your dressing room, call you his wife—the real reason for the nipple-on—and that he’s going to do it with all that arrogance and anger?”
“Can we get some more dresses? I’d like to see her in green.”
The cockiness in his tone makes me groan in annoyance.
“Go get him, girl.”
I hang up as the shop assistant leaves the room. Stepping out from behind the divide, I look across at him. He’s standing, giving me a heavy stare, but I give my own right back.
“Do you think it’s acceptable to come in herelying?”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to cancel my meetings and send me on your little fetish runs around London? Did it scratch the itch?” He looks between my legs, and my jaw drops.
“You’re a pig!”
“And you’re a presumptuous witch.”
“Get out.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why are you here?”
“I told Mase I’d help. Besides, if you are arriving with us tonight, I at least want you to look semi-decent.”
“You’re going! To the gala?”
“Sure am, sunshine.” He looks down his nose at me, his inked forearms flexing and telling me he’s fisting his hands in his pockets. “Go get dressed.”
I snigger and cross my arms over my chest, unmoving.
His eyes hold mine, and all I can think about is my nail appointment at three o’clock.
