Page 74 of Brazen Mistakes

But I need armor for this mission. And good armor doesn’t come cheap. Not even the silk kind.

“What do you think?” Summer asks.

“It’s exactly what we need.”

“Good. Let me try on my dress, then we’ll go get you heels and clothes for brunch on Saturday. An overcoat and purse we’ll get secondhand—you don’t want to look like you bought everything new just for this event.”

“I don’t?”

“Hell no. If you’re supposed to be some old money East Coaster, you have to show that you’ve been buying quality since before you got your driver’s license.”

I nod along like this is something obvious as I pull the strings on my dress, twisting the buttons to the front so I can undo them. Summer disappears again, coming back with a pale blue corset dress in her arms.

Back in my jeans and sweatshirt, I breathe a sigh of relief—comfortable in my thrifted glory.

Meanwhile, Summer strips down, motioning for me to drop the dress over her head, leaving me to attempt the corset ties as best I can.

Where the corset dress I tried made me look like a kid playing dress-up, on Summer, it’s stunning.

The icy blue makes her eyes glitter, and the corset top offers her boobs up like a fucking feast. If Emma were here, I’m pretty sure she’d be speechless. I’m straight as a pin and I’m impressed. “Wow,” I say.

“I thought this one would work. Hand me my phone?”

I fish it out of her bag, and she puts on a coquettish grin, snapping a few shots of herself from different angles. As soon as she finishes, the charming smile is gone, and she turns her back to me. “Untie me?”

“Sure. Are those shots heading straight to social media? Are you an influencer or something?”

She huffs a laugh. “No, just teasing my date for this event.”

“I don’t want to seem forward, but we’ve literally seen each other mostly naked at this point. I’m just wondering where you get all your money. If you grew up with Jansen, it’s not like you have a trust fund. And you’re not old enough to be making hand over fist as a lawyer or doctor. If you’re not an influencer or model, it’s just not tracking for me.”

Her ties loosened, we pull the dress over her head, and I hang it back up while she gets dressed. “I’m a dog walker,” she answers once she’s back in her soft-looking white sweater and light blue jeans, white leather boots in the process of being laced.

I freeze, staring at her. “A dog walker?”

“Yeah. If you know anyone who needs help with their dog, send them my way.”

I can’t help the way laughter overtakes me, causing me to lean against the wall for support. “No. I don’t believe you.”

She pulls a card out of her wallet, and there, clear as day, is her truth. “Summer’s Break-time Services, Summer Jones, Owner and Dog Whisperer.”

I stand there, holding the little rectangular card, the laminated surface smooth under my fingers. Summer stands up, mischief on her face, and I pass the card back. “I’m not going to stop trying to figure this out,” I say.

“Grit is a practice, not a trait,” she says, tucking the card back into her purse.

“You like to evade answers by popping off little aphorisms, don’t you?”

“And you like to think you’re clever.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t. Any wisdom I’ve got, I’ve either learned through failure or picked up in a self-help book. Feel free to try to figure me out. I’m not complicated. But I am a dog walker. I didn’t even graduate from high school, but I made a secure life for myself. I get invited to all kinds of fancy places, so I need fancy clothes. And that’s all there is to it.”

“What about the fancy cars?”

“Nothing wrong with liking speed over substance. Even better if it’s speed and substance.”

I chuckle, sliding the curtain open, finding Trips and Walker still waiting in the dressing room. Trips lounges against the wall, phone in hand. Walker, meanwhile, must have collected his sketchbook from the car. My appearance has him lookingup and scratching his cheek, smearing charcoal across his face.

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