Page 23 of Not That Into You

For once, there’s no sign of playfulness on his face.

He leans in, and my heart trips over itself. “Believe it or not, Monica, most women would be thrilled by a free shopping trip. Most women would be grateful.”

“I’m not most women.”

He smirks. “No shit.”

“And this is just your attempt to Julia Roberts me again.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You’re Richard Gere trying to turn a prostitute into a socialite.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“Pretty Woman? The movie?”

He blinks before slowly shaking his head. “How does a movie apply to this situation?”

“The scene where he takes her shopping?” I roll my eyes at Cameron’s blank look. “Never mind.”

“You’re not a prostitute.”

“Of course I’m not a prostitute!” I glance around as my cheeks warm, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone within earshot.

“Okay.” He scratches his head and straightens. “Will you just try these clothes on? Please? As my fake girlfriend?”

I press my lips together and take a deep breath. There’s a small, itty-bitty kernel of logic hidden in what he’s saying. I do know my wardrobe isn’t exactly Hamptons appropriate. But I hate the idea of changing myself to fit in.

I did enough of that in high school.

During my junior year, I’d tried adding blonde highlights to my dark brown hair. I’d even bought hazel-colored contacts. All to fit in with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls I’d envied. The result had been brassy orange streaks and an eye infection. Not my best look.

The cost of getting my hair color-corrected by a professional had almost wiped out all of my babysitting money, but it had been worth every penny and a valuable lesson.

I glance at Cameron with his glossy hair and bespoke three-piece suit. He looks as if he’s just stepped off the pages of GQ, while I look like an extra from Empire Records. We don’t make any sense together. How are we going to convince anyone we’re in a relationship?

I suppose a fancy wardrobe might go a long way to making us more believable. And I did agree to be Cameron’s fake girlfriend. He didn’t blackmail me. He just agreed to pay a large sum of money that will make my mom’s back surgery possible.

With a sigh, I shove Cameron out of the dressing room, mumble, “Fine,” and pull the curtain closed.

I quickly undress and grab the hanger closest to me. Holding the garment up, I hesitate, surprised it appears to be a jumpsuit. I don’t know what I was expecting—a frilly dress with a floral print?—but it wasn’t this. I pull it on and look at my reflection in the full-length mirror.

The jumpsuit is white and flattering as it flows down my body. It’s sleeveless with a deep V-neck that gives just enough coverage to allow for a bra. The pants are wide-legged, and if I stand still with my legs together, a person might mistake it for a dress. I don’t wear white often, and I’m surprised it makes my skin appear warm and tan rather than sallow and washed out.

I look good.

“Are you dressed yet? Open up.”

I sigh and open the curtain.

“Come out here. Let me look at you.”

I step out of the dressing room, expecting to face a knowing smirk or leering smile. Instead, Cameron looks serious as he assesses all my angles.

“Turn around.”

I prop my hand on my hip and lift a brow.

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