Page 19 of He Should Be Mine
My excuse was going to be that I said it to stop her from wondering who my daddy might be. Since Rick doesn’t want anyone knowing about me.
But Dario isn’t questioning me. He is not even glaring at me. He seems infuriatingly unaffected.
Screw him. I sip my champagne and try to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Calling Dario my daddy in public has got my body all kinds of confused. The shop assistant thinks I belong to Dario, and I love it. More than words can say. Far, far more than is healthy or right.
Gah, I’m such an idiot. I really am my own worst enemy.
The shop assistant returns with an armful of outfits and a knowing smile. I drain the last of my champagne and hand the glass off like I’m royalty.
“Wish me luck,” I murmur to Dario with a wink, then I slip behind the curtain.
The first outfit is all sharp lines and soft fabrics. Black trousers that cling in the right places and a silk shirt with a plunging neckline. I step out and do a slow twirl in front of the mirror, aware of Dario sitting stiffly in the boutique’s elegant armchair like it’s trying to bite him.
“What do you think?” I ask, trailing my fingers down the line of buttons.
He glances up. His jaw tightens. “It’s fine.”
“Just fine?” I pout, then slowly undo the top two buttons, exposing a sliver of more skin. “This shirt is practically begging for compliments.”
His eyes flick to the mirror, then back to me. “It’s... good.”
“Dario,” I say, voice like syrup, “You wound me. Try again.”
He exhales through his nose. “You look good.”
I grin like I’ve won something. “Thank you.” Then I duck behind the curtain again, heart hammering.
I go through outfit after outfit. Each one bolder than the last. A sheer mesh top. Tight white jeans. A cropped blazer with nothing underneath. With each reveal, I watch Dario’s discomfort grow, his knuckles white around the arms of the chair, his gaze darting anywhere but directly at me.
And God, I love it.
But also... it hurts.
Because heislooking. His eyes linger just a second too long. But it doesn’t mean anything, does it? I’m just a body to him. A chore. Something he’s been told to watch over, not someone he actually wants.
When I come out in a loose silk kimono, bare-chested beneath it, he stands up so fast his champagne glass nearly tips off the side table.
“I think that’s enough,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
“Enough?” I saunter toward him, giving the fabric a playful tug to flash more thigh. “You haven’t even seen the last one. It’s scandalous.”
“Molly.”
His voice is like a warning. But not the scary kind. The kind that makes me want to keep pushing.
I halt, two feet from him. “You don’t like it?” I ask lightly. “Or is it that you like ittoo much?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with that tortured look that twists something deep in my gut.
I turn away with a soft laugh, pretending it doesn’t sting. “Relax. I’m just having fun.”
I disappear behind the curtain one last time, heart suddenly not in it. For all the teasing, for all the clothes and champagne and games, I’d trade it all to know what it would feel like to have Dario look at me andreallysee me.
Not a job. Not a body. Just me.
I change back into my own clothes in silence, folding the kimono neatly even though I know the assistant will do it. Dario doesn’t say a word while I check out and arrange for my new possessions to be delivered. He just hovers near the door, glowering at the street like he’s waiting for it to offend him.
The assistant offers me a complimentary water in a fancy bottle. I take it because it’s frigging hot outside. I offer one to Dario, but he just shakes his head.
