Page 26 of Fake As Puck
“How do people shop in this chaos?” he asks.
“Practice. And caffeine.”
We hit three stores before I find a wrap dress in a soft green that actually fits like it was made for me. It’s simple but flattering, appropriate but not boring.
“This one,” I say, stepping out of the fitting room.
West’s reaction is immediate and obvious. His eyes widen slightly, and he goes very still.
“Good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Good.”
“You sure? You don’t have to say it’s good if it’s not good.”
“It’s good, Liv. Really good.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me believe him.
“Great. Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“You can’t wear a hockey jersey to a wedding, West. You need something nice.”
“I have nice clothes.”
I lead him to the men’s store where everything looks like a preppy businessman wardrobe, and I start pulling button-downs off the racks.
“Try this,” I say, handing him a light blue shirt.
“I don’t need—”
“You do need. Trust me.”
He disappears into the fitting room, and when he emerges, I have to actively remind myself to breathe.
The shirt fits him perfectly. It brings out his eyes and makes his shoulders look somehow even broader.
“How’s this?” he asks, adjusting the collar.
“Good. Try the gray one.”
“Liv—”
“Try it.”
He sighs but goes back into the fitting room. The gray one is even better. Then the white one. Then the navy.
“You know what?” I say, pulling out my phone. “Tessa needs to see this.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.” I snap a photo of him in the navy shirt, then another one in the white. “She’s going to die.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You’re right. Models don’t look this good in off-the-rack shirts.”
