Page 11 of The Love Clause

"Well, don't just stand there," Mandy says, pulling more clothes from the bags. "Try these on! I want to see if his assistant's 'educated guess' was right."

I glare at her, knowing exactly what she's doing. "I can try them later."

"No time like the present!" She shoves a bundle of fabric into my arms. "Go on, the bathroom's all yours."

Trapped, I reluctantly head to our tiny bathroom with the first outfit. It's a simple but elegant sundress in a soft sage green that probably costs more than everything else I own combined. I slip it on, surprised by how perfectly it fits, how the material feels against my skin. Looking in the cracked mirror above our sink, I barely recognize myself.

I step out, feeling oddly vulnerable. "So…verdict?"

Mandy whistles. Elliot, who's standing awkwardly by the window like he's afraid to touch anything, turns and goes completely still. His eyes widen just slightly, a subtle reaction that nonetheless sends a weird little flutter through my stomach.

"The color is…suitable," he says, his voice oddly formal.

"High praise," I say dryly. "Should I try the next one?"

This proceeds for the next forty-five minutes—me disappearing into the bathroom and emerging in increasingly fancy outfits, Mandy making inappropriate comments, and Elliot offering clinical assessments that give nothing away except for the occasional tightening of his jaw or slight darkening of his eyes.

The clothes are beautiful, I have to admit. There's a pair of tailored pants that make my legs look a mile long, silk blouses in jewel tones, a casual but clearly expensive jeans-and-sweatercombo that somehow looks elegant instead of basic, and even a few cocktail dresses that make me feel like I should be holding a martini and discussing yacht purchases.

"Last one," Mandy announces, pulling a garment bag from the bottom of the pile. "This looks promising."

She unzips it to reveal a red dress that makes both of us gasp for different reasons. Mine is panic, hers is delight.

"I can't wear that," I protest immediately. "That's not a dress, it's a signal flare with a zipper."

"It's for the formal dinner on Saturday night," Elliot explains, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Claire selected it based on the dress code information."

"Claire has a much higher opinion of my body than reality warrants," I mutter, but Mandy is already shoving the dress into my arms.

"Try it on," she insists. "If it's awful, we'll know now rather than when you're surrounded by rich people with judgmental eyebrows."

With extreme reluctance, I take the red dress into the bathroom. It's a deep crimson, with a sophisticated cut that looks deceptively simple on the hanger but reveals its true nature once I squeeze into it. The material hugs every curve I didn't even know I had, with a neckline that dips just low enough to be interesting without crossing into tacky. The back dips even lower, a waterfall of fabric that leaves most of my spine exposed.

I stare at my reflection, hardly recognizing the woman looking back at me. I look…expensive. Like someone who might believably be engaged to Elliot Carrington.

"Are you alive in there?" Mandy calls. "Or did the dress eat you?"

"I'm contemplating climbing out the window," I call back.

"Don't you dare! Let us see!"

With a deep breath, I open the door and step out, feeling like I'm wearing someone else's skin. The immediate silence is deafening.

Mandy recovers first. "Holy. Shit."

Elliot says nothing. His eyes meet mine, drop to take in the dress, and then snap back up to my face with an intensity that makes my cheeks heat. His expression is impossible to read, but there's something in his gaze that wasn't there before—a darkness, a heat.

"So…no good?" I ask awkwardly, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

"It's..." Elliot clears his throat. "It's appropriate for the occasion."

"That's the understatement of the century," Mandy mutters. "You look like a movie star."

I turn to look at myself in the full-length mirror we've propped against the living room wall. The dress transforms me from struggling artist to someone who might attend galas and charity auctions. Someone who might stand beside Elliot without looking like a charity case.

"Your assistant has uncanny taste," I admit reluctantly.

"Claire is efficient," Elliot says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. He's still looking at me with that unreadable expression, his posture rigid.

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