Page 17 of Fanged Temptation

“But you’ll look amazing in it,” she insisted, clamping two hands on my shoulders and steering me toward the dressing rooms.

I stumbled along reluctantly, grumbling the whole way. “What’s the point in trying it on if I’m not going to buy it?”

“The point is that we’re havingfun,” she said cheerfully, ushering me onward.

I relinquished the shopping bags to her and accepted the damn dress, shaking my head in futile protest.

“Fun, Leah,” Maxine reminded me before nudging me into the room, swinging her bags about like a mad woman.

The door clicked shut behind me and I sighed, staring at the garment in my hands.It’s pretty, I guess.I made a point of avoiding the price tag, focusing instead on the silky fabric slipping between my fingers.It’s soft, too.

With a resigned groan, I pulled off my jacket and my one-man battle with the dress began.

It was like wrestling with a very silky, very expensive octopus, and the zipper at the back proved to be my ultimate nemesis. I struggled, twisting and fumbling, cursing under my breath while it refused to budge.

After several minutes of fruitless tugging and twitching in a bizarre solo dance routine, Maxine's voice floated through the door, overtly smug and entirely too amused. “Need some help?”

“No,” I snapped, yanking at the zipper again.

The door creaked open anyway and Maxine slipped inside, her hands on her hips while I spluttered and swore at the intrusion.

“Stop fussing and let me see,” she tutted, ignoring my protests and turning me around. I scowled at her in the mirror, indignant and uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“I can do it mys–” I froze as her fingers brushed my bare back, cool and featherlight as she guided the zipper up with ease. I was suddenly highly aware of the cramped space we were crammed into.

Maxine adjusted the strap on my shoulder, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“There,” she said softly, her voice tickling the shell of my ear.

Her hands moved down to my arms and she gave them a gentle squeeze, propping her chin on my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I watched her gaze into the mirror, a serene smile playing on her lips.

When she caught my eye I looked away, the proximity doing funny things to my heart rate.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, and… did not recognize the woman staring back at me. The dress fit like it was made for me; ribbed corset accentuating my waist, a tumble of emerald fabric swishing around my ankles, my red hair vibrant against the silky green swaths. The woman in the reflection looked polished, elegant – maybe even beautiful.

But then reality set in.

“I look like I’m playing dress-up,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

Maxine met my gaze in the mirror, a somber note to her gentle tone. “You look beautiful, Leah.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. The brush of her fingers, the way she anchored herself to me – it was too much and not enough at the same time. We stood there, watching each other in the mirror, while my stomach tied itself into knots.

For a moment I almost turned, almost faced her head-on. But something held me back, a tangled mess of emotions grappling for dominance in my chest. I shifted uncomfortably on my feet.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this way, wasn’t supposed to care so much.

Maxine’s mouth turned up at the corners, an encouraging smile as I held her gaze, and suddenly I was sixteen again, standing before a different mirror, with a younger Maxine at my back.

She had pulled out a dress from her backpack – a pretty thing, but too daring for someone like me. It was another one of her experiments, trying to make me "fashionable," she'd said. She had zipped me up, her fingers brushing my back, light as a feather, and I'd caught her looking at me through the mirror with a softness that made my heart race.

Those butterflies – that old, familiar flutter – had started in my stomach again.

I'd known, even at that young age, that what I felt for Maxine went much further than friendship. But I'd been afraid to voice those feelings at the time. Afraid that they might horrify her, scare her away, or at the very least, put a strain on our relationship. So I'd swallowed them instead, buried them deep, and convinced myself that it was just a phase. That whatever I was feeling… it would not be reciprocated.

Now, in the confined space of that cramped dressing room, those buried feelings resurfaced with an intensity that wasimpossible to ignore. But this time, it wasn't fear that kept me silent.

It was guilt.

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