Page 50 of Tied Up in Riches

“I don’t mind. Give me ten.”

Chapter twenty-two

Brooke

“Am I going to have to drag you in here?” Marcus asks as I stare up at the glowing store letters. We’ve been to three department stores, and I didn’t find anything. I knew I wouldn’t. There were a few dresses I loved, but they wouldn’t be Mom-approved. They aren’t expensive enough, which is why we are now standing outside a store full of glitz and glamor–the kind of store that has individual dressing room attendants and personal shoppers.

“How do you feel about kicking and screaming?” I say with a completely neutral expression.

“Kicking, not so good. Screaming on the other hand . . . If it’s in the right scenario.” His tongue darts out ever so slightly to wet his lip as he smirks.

I roll my eyes. “Let’s get this over with.” He’s been patient so far, but I can tell it’s running thin. I make a bee-line for the dressing rooms and find the nearest attendant. By the time Marcus catches up to me, I’ve given the lady my size and told her about the event. I’m over making this more difficult than it needs to be.

When she returns with a coat rack on wheels lined with dresses, she gives Marcus a once-over. It’s not because he’s hot. It’s the same appraisal she gave me after noting my plain blue jeans and tank top in such a high-class establishment. Marcus isn’t dressed anymore appropriately–although his signature look does it for me. His pea coat is unbuttoned, revealing his dark gray jeans and black V-neck. His dark hair is tied back in a neat messy bun–how he manages to make that oxymoron work is beyond me. The things I would do to that man if I could pull him into the changing room with me and get away with it.

“Miss Fields?”

“Yes?” I notice Marcus’ eyes on me in the split second I meet his gaze before turning back to the attendant.

“I’m ready for you. Right this way.” She holds out her hand, motioning in the direction of a door where she’s already written my name on a miniature whiteboard bordered with pearls.

Looking over my shoulder, I watch Marcus pull his phone from his pocket, checking the screen. “I need to take this.”

“Oh, okay.” It’s not that I need his opinion, but everything on this rack is disgustingly extravagant and completely unnecessary. It would be easier if someone could choose for me.

Marcus hardly waits for my response before he wanders off, phone pressed to his ear.

The attendant closes me into my room, assuring me she’ll be close by in case I need anything. Sighing, I run my hand over the assortment of fabrics hung in front of me, the reflection of sparkles filling the mirror on my right. At first glance, I don’t love any of them. I immediately move the silky, floor-length red one to the end of the rack. I rarely look good in red. Navy blue with a scoop neck and spaghetti straps. My mom will likely be in this color. She’s always in this color. Pass. That leaves a black one and a purple one. Purple is my favorite color, but I push aside the plum sequins, wanting to try it on last. I flip the price tag over on the black one. A dollar short of three hundred. The purple one is likely a similar price, and it makes any draw toward them disappear.

I don’t have a choice, so I shimmy out of my jeans, tug my tank top over my head, and unhook my bra. I’d definitely have to get some of those sticky pad things. How annoying.

Pulling the black dress from the hanger, I slip it over my hips, sliding my arms into the sleeves. It falls barely below my ass, although long enough to pass as classy because the sleeves are full-length. The fabric hugs my body everywhere and is glittered with silver sequins so small they look like stars in a night sky. Instead of a zipper, there’s a keyhole open back, held together by a hook at the top of my shoulder blades that I barely manage on my own.

I spin to face the mirror.

I hold the beach waves off my neck and take in my reflection.

Damn.

The sparkles glisten in the fluorescent lights of the dressing room, and I imagine how pretty they will look in the light of the crystal chandeliers in the club.

I think I need this dress. I’ve never thought that about any article of clothing. I threw away every single piece from my old life without hesitation when I moved to Thailand–outside of my one hoodie. But this dress. I shake away the thought of the price as I take one last look in the mirror before taking it off and carefully adjusting it back on the hanger. My first paycheck from Marcus got deposited this morning. I’ll be fine. Plus, I saved a lot more than I planned to while I was in Thailand.

I reach for the other dress simply because it’s purple and I’m already undressed. This one is a little more risque. Even though the attendant has probably dressed more people for events at the country club than I could even imagine, I’m not sure it’s quite appropriate. It’s basically a slip covered completely in sequins.

Slipping it over my silk cheeky panties, I pull the scratchy fabric over my boobs. I can already tell I look killer in this dress, but the crisscross straps in the back are a tad tangled. I peek my head outside my changing room, but I don’t see the lady who helped me. Stepping out fully, I make my way to the entrance of the dressing area.

Spinning in a slow circle, hands still lightly pressed against each boob until I know my straps are where they should be, I search for help. I don’t see the attendant. Marcus isn’t anywhere either. But there is someone.

He’s standing next to a dress rack, his hand on the top of a hanger as if he was mindlessly looking through a row of dresses. I freeze in place, my hands no longer just holding my boobs in place, but also keeping my heart and lungs inside my body and my entire autonomic nervous system from malfunctioning.

“Beau,” I whisper under my breath right as he says my name at normal volume. “Hey,” I manage.

He pulls his hand from the dresses and closes the distance between us in three steps. He’s wearing khakis, a quarter-zip navy sweater and his hair perfectly styled into place. His signature Armani cologne is as strong as ever. Gag. What did I ever see in him? “It’s about time I ran into you.” His words might be directed at my face, but his eyes are anywhere but as they drag up and down my body. What the hell is he doing here?

I pull my arms tighter around myself as if it would strengthen some invisible force field around me. But the truth is, nothing is capable. There’s something about Beau that makes me weak–not in the “Please take me back and I’ll marry you” way. I just tend to revert to the version of myself who isn’t strong enough to make my own decisions. The one who answers solely with “Yes” and “I’m on it” in that “I owe you so I’ll do anything for you” way even though he’s never truly done anything for me. That’s what years of my mom’s whispers in my ear did. They were like a bug constantly buzzing nearby, no matter how many times I swatted it away. The only solution was to go somewhere they didn’t exist. It was wishful thinking to hope that when I came back to the swamp, the bugs wouldn’t still be here. Cam’s nickname for her–Mosqueda–is all too fitting. “Unfortunately,” I mumble.

He flashes his Warner Huntington III smirk like he knows his effect on me. He’s a lawyer. It’s his job to know how to take people down with one look and a few words. “It’s good to see you,” he says cooly like it hasn’t been three years. Like the last time I saw him wasn’t the night I texted Cam “SOS” in the middle of the night to have him drive me to the airport with nothing but the clothes I was wearing and my passport. “How are you?”

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