Page 61 of His Jersey

23

ELLA

Jack excuseshimself to shower and then doubles back and pulls out his wallet, passing me a black credit card. “The car will be waiting for you downstairs. Take this and get some cold weather clothing.”

“What, you don’t want me wearing my maid uniform to a game?”

His lips quirk flirtatiously. “I’d like to see you in that.”

I swat him with the metal card and then try to give it back.

“Also, pick up something to wear for dinner with my father. Think Sapphire Sea attire. The driver will know what shops to bring you to.”

“Jack, I can’t?—”

Radiating heat, Jack leans in and kisses my temple. “You’re my fiancée now. You must.”

It’s not an order. More like a temptation. I can’t let myself think this is real. Not for one minute.

I only have the outfit that I wore on the airplane and a few other items from the resort’s lost and found. When I get to theshops, I realize they have an unofficial dress code and I don’t exactly look the part.

All the same, I take my chances and go in, instantly feeling out of place in the designer boutique with a subtleYou Can’t Afford Thisfragrance in the air. Alcoves on either side of the long room highlight various ensembles, complete with accessories. The center consists of several racks of clothes on wooden hangers tufted with silk.

My shoes squeak on the polished floors as I browse with what I assume are wide eyes. This is the type of place resort guests shop because I recognize the fine tailoring of their discarded duds. The aloof saleswoman with her coifed hair and dull stare ignores me as she moves gracefully among the clothes like a wraith.

Not wanting to keep the driver waiting too long, I say, “Excuse me, I’m looking for some winter clothing.”

The woman looks me up and down as if only now realizing that I have a pulse. “There’s a department store on the other side of town that might be more suitable for you.”

I blink a few times as I process her insult and dismissal. “Alrighty then. Thank you,” I say, leaving.

Trying another store on the same street, my experience is much the same. Every time I touch something, the salesman visibly winces like I’m getting my sticky, dirty fingers all over his precious garments.

“Third one is the charm?” I wonder, crossing to the other side of the road and entering a modern shop with white paint and a black sign with the single letterBfollowed by a period. Music plays faintly in the background of the wooden and glass boutique with its sparse yet bespoke décor.

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” the woman says as she literally clutches her pearls.

My expression sharpens. “I’m wearing a shirt and I have shoes on.”

“That means we have the right to refuse service to anyone.”

I frown. “No, it doesn’t.”

“My store. My rules.”

My eyes are as big as saucers.

It’s then I realize something crucial and scramble for my phone, but I can’t remember the passwords to my social media accounts. Did the videos of Jack and me go so viral that the locals are bitter, resulting in them being rude to me? Are the puck bunnies in on this?

I don’t look atrocious unless the joke is on me and Jack is willing to marry a vagabond. Sure, I should probably wash my hair tonight, but it’s not a grease slick. My clothes are off the rack, but so are the ones they’re selling.

I could really use a girlfriend right now. There are two contacts in my phone—Jack’s and Carlos’s, in case I can’t get ahold of him. I tap out a quick message requesting his sister’s info.

He replies immediately that he’ll send it, but before he does, I get abingfrom an unknown number. It’s Leah. I reply with an SOS.

Leah: Did Jack put you on a boat back to the island?

Me: No, he threw me to the sharks.

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