Page 110 of Fire Fight

I try on the first one, a nice black wool blend suit, and it looks fine. “This’ll do.”

The disappointment on the man’s face almost makes me feel bad for him. “You’re sure, sir? We have another range if these aren’t to your taste.”

“No.” I stare in the mirror at the close-fitted tailoring. “This is perfect.” When I turn to the side, the stitched vent in back gapes. “You can fix that, right?”

“Of course, sir. If you’ll allow me to take measurements, we’ll alter it to fit.”

Cue fifteen minutes of him reminding me to stand still and let my arms hang loosely by my sides; a hard ask when I’m checking my phone for incoming messages.

When he gets to the end, I’ve moved so often he has another staff member repeat the exercise, then I’m set free for an hour while they baste the initial alterations.

Meanwhile, Cadence sends through a photograph of a demure pastel blue frock with a high neckline, fitted sleeves, and a skirt that trails on the floor.

DRAKE

Nice look, granny.

CADENCE

My gran could never have afforded this.

DRAKE

Not with those yards of fabric. You’re a TEENAGER. You’re allowed to flash a bit of ankle.

She promptly sends me a picture of nothing but ankle. Not quite the reveal I hoped for.

While I wander along the row of shops to kill time, Cadence sends me another half dozen outfits, lamenting the problems with each while I enjoy the view.

Back at the store, I’m carefully draped in the newly tailored suit. The tailor adds another half dozen pins before having me take it off, sending me on another solitary tour of the strip while he tries again.

CADENCE

This is the one. I can feel it.

DRAKE

You look beautiful.

She does. My throat grips as I download the picture and move it to my private album. The dress is gold, bringing out the same highlights in her hair and setting off the vibrant sparkle of her emerald eyes.

CADENCE

Or this one. What do you think?

What I think that I’m back being fitted once again, and her picture is on the verge of requiring another overhaul based on crotch adjustments alone.

DRAKE

Too little fabric for a party. I’d have to kill half the guests. Try again.

The next photograph has me verging on a heart attack. I pace the changing rooms that the main salesman insisted I wait inside because, “It’ll just be a minute. Maybe two.”

He knocks on the door, politely waiting for me to crack it open an inch. “It’s ready for your last fitting, sir.”

The fact there now appears to be four staff members looking after one solitary customer gives me a bracing insight into why their prices are excessive.

It also makes it extremely uncomfortable to think of the next photograph sliding into my DMs when each man is staring at the fit of my clothing, pushing and pulling and pinning while ticking tongues against their teeth.

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