Page 113 of 10 Days to Ruin

I guess Date #7 is a go after all.

36

ARIEL

“I have less than zero interest in shopping with you right now,” I inform Sasha.

He doesn’t turn his gaze from the window. “If I cared, that would be devastating.”

“What kind of places does a guy like you even shop at? Whips & Chains ‘R’ Us?”

I’m aware that’s not my most devastating burn ever, so I’m not surprised when he doesn’t laugh. He does look at me, though.

And something in his expression gives me pause.

Sasha looks hangdog. Tired, in a lifelong sort of way. Still beautiful, but there’s a sadness to it that grabs me by the throat for a second.

I shudder and look elsewhere. That’s a dangerous trap and I will not be setting foot in it.

“We’ll go wherever you like,” he murmurs.

“Perfect. Walmart has a great line of granny panties I’ve been dying to try.”

“On second thought,” he says, the faintest hint of a laugh rippling through his voice, “we’ll go whereIlike.”

Le Petit Oiseaulooks like Marie Antoinette’s boudoir went apeshit with a Bond villain’s credit card. Glass cases gleam with purses made from what I assume to be the hides of various endangered species. Chandeliers pour out of the ceiling overhead like it’s’ all one continuous waterfall, crystallized into place.

I feel guilty for besmirching their glistening tile with my peasant feet—to say nothing of my attire, which is ghastly. But Sasha strides past the glittering accessories toward a tall, stern woman in a black sheath dress with resting oligarch face.

She pales when she sees him. They exchange brief words in French—I’ll be damned; he really does speak it—then both turn to look at me.

Sasha stays put. The woman marches over, her long legs chewing up the space between where she was and where I’m currently awkwardly marooned one step inside the entrance. “Mrs. Ozerova, it’s a pleasure to make your?—”

“Just Ariel,” I interrupt with a gulp. Then, so as not to sound like a complete and total bitch, I add, “Please.”

She hesitates. Her eyes flick to the side, as if she’s looking at Sasha through the back of her skull. Then she nods crisply. “Yes, of course. Ariel. My name is Yvonne. It would be a delight to assist you today.”

I consider resisting. I could, in theory. Sasha is standing aloof in the rear of the store, hands holstered in his pockets, with a look of distant, utter disdain on his face. If I refused, I’d bet he’d just tighten his jaw and instruct the staff to bar the doors. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to leave, but I wouldn’t haveto cooperate. It’d just be a Wild West standoff. Two gunslingers waiting for the other to crack.

But everything in this store really is stunningly beautiful. Ostrich leather, Peruvian cashmere—you can’t look in any direction without seeing something so exquisitely made that it takes your breath away. My fingers itch to touch this dress and that scarf.

Jasmine would have loved it here.

We used to play dress-up when we were young, putting on our best dresses and clomping around in Mama’s heels. Princesses at the ball, fairies flitting to and fro. I still remember her braiding my hair into fishtails for the first time, stepping back, and smiling.You look beautiful, Ari.

I force a smile to my face. “Great,” I tell Yvonne. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She begins with a broad lap of the store to familiarize myself with the different sections. It’s a guilty pleasure to let my fingers riffle over every single thing they can get close enough to touch. My eyes didn’t fool me—it all really does feel incredible. Soft as clouds, sleek, gorgeous.

There are just two problems with that.

One, I’m not the kind of girl who can get away with rocking a gold lamé jumpsuit or a black crocodile trench coat. That’s for movie stars and runway models, not for someone who still can’t remember that there’s no hard T at the end of “Yves St. Laurent.”

Secondly, admitting I love this stuff would be giving Sasha what he wants. And after last night’s eruption, I’m still hurting in a way that brings me back to the very first square he and I ever started on. I want to piss him off. I want to see that crack in his facade again, the one that made him kiss the hell out of me in the car. Notthe one that made him bark at Feliks to “take me away.”

Between those two issues, though, I think I can see a narrow way through. A way to get what I want—the opportunity to play dress-up again, even if it’s just for an hour or two—while keeping him from his own grim, grimy,you’ll-do-as-I-say-and-you’ll-like-itsatisfaction.

So it’s back to the brattiness we go.

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