Page 21 of Tempting Frankie
“Uh, Alexander? They're not open,” I point out.
He just smirks, reaching for the door handle. To my shock, it swings open easily. A bell chimes as we step inside, and suddenly the lights flicker on. A short woman with close-cropped silver hair appears, beaming at us.
“Mr. Steele! So wonderful to see you again,” she gushes, air-kissing his cheeks. Her gaze falls on me, and I resist the urge to shrink back. “And this must be the young lady you mentioned. Come in, come in!”
I shoot Alexander a questioning look, but he just ushers me further into the shop. Unlike the other stores, this one is filled with a dizzying array of sizes and styles. Flowing maxi dresses, tailored blazers, curve-hugging jeans. My eyes dart from rack to rack, drinking it all in.
“Madeleine specializes in custom and inclusive sizing,” Alexander explains softly. “I've arranged for a private fitting session.”
I blink rapidly, fighting back the sudden sting of tears. “You...how did you know she was here?”
Alexander cups my cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear lingering at the corner of my lash line. His touch is surprisingly tender, at odds with the commanding presence he usually exudes.
“Francesca,” he says softly, his green eyes filled with regret. “I'm sorry. I was completely obtuse and should have anticipated this. It was thoughtless of me.”
I blink rapidly, trying to process this unexpected turn of events. The Alexander Steele I thought I knew—the ruthless businessman, the domineering alpha male—seems to have vanished, replaced by this attentive, considerate man before me.
So much for telling myself not to get attached when he makes it so fucking easy. Good dick, good taste, and already three times the man his son pretended to be. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
“It's okay,” I mumble, embarrassed by my emotional display. “You couldn't have known.”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, it's not okay. I pride myself on anticipating needs and solving problems before they arise. I should have realized.”
I nod, still a bit dazed. Madeleine swoops in, ushering me toward a dais. The boutique is a feast for the senses.
I find myself relaxing despite my initial hesitation.
“Now then,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Let's start with your measurements, shall we? Then we can discuss your personal style, preferences, and any particular pieces you're looking for.”
She chatters on, but I'm only half-listening. My gaze keeps drifting to the man who made this possible, who's settled into an armchair nearby. He's removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. The casual posture should make him look less intimidating, but somehow it only emphasizes his power.
As if sensing my scrutiny, he looks up, catching my eye. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, and I feel heat bloom in my cheeks. I quickly look away, focusing on Madeleine as she takes my measurements with practiced efficiency.
“Lovely,” she declares, jotting down some final notes. “Now, let's talk style. What sort of pieces are you drawn to? Any particular colors or silhouettes you prefer or want to steer clear of?”
I hesitate, suddenly overwhelmed by the options surrounding me. “I…I'm not sure,” I admit. “I've never really had the chance to explore fashion like this before.”
Alexander chimes in, his voice tinged with amusement, “Francesca's particularly fond of cheeky clothing. Like that adorable little crop top she was wearing when we first met.”
I whip my head around to glare at him, hissing, “Alexander!”
He just smirks, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I can feel the blush creeping up my neck.
Madeleine laughs, a warm, throaty sound. “Now, now, Mr. Steele. Let's not embarrass the poor girl.” She winks at me conspiratorially. “Though I do have a few pieces that might satisfy both your tastes.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands. This is surreal. I'm standing in a boutique while my ex-boyfriend's father and a stylist discuss my wardrobe preferences. How is this my life?
She leads me to a spacious changing area, complete with a trifold mirror and a plush velvet ottoman. She hangs an array of garments on the hooks lining the walls, each one more beautiful than the last.
“Take your time,” she says kindly. “There's no pressure. Just have fun and see what speaks to you.”
With that, she slips out, leaving me alone in the dressing room. I take a deep breath, running my fingers over the soft fabrics surrounding me. There's an emerald wrap dress that catches my eye, its silky material cool against my skin. A pair of high-waisted black trousers hangs next to it, the cut promising to hug my curves in all the right places.
I spot a flash of red and pull out a cropped sweater, its material thick and luxurious. It's nothing like the cheap, flimsy crop top Alexander had teased me about, but I can see why he might like it.
I slip the red sweater over my head, admiring how the soft fabric hugs my curves. It's cropped just enough to show a tantalizing sliver of skin above my navel. I'm about to reach for a pair of jeans when the curtain suddenly parts.
“What the fu—” I yelp, spinning around to see Alexander stepping into the dressing room.
