Page 71 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Chapter17
Hunter
Ilook up from my spot on the couch when Juliet breezes through the door. She carries a single shopping bag that says Ladybug Consignment on the side. I arch a brow.
If Juliet wanted something new, I could’ve bought it for her. She shouldn’t be shopping at resale boutiques.
“I’m home,” she calls.
Funny that she’s calling my apartment home now. I can’t say I hate it.
I arch a brow as she drops the bag on the counter. “You’ve been busy.”
She grins. “Had to be prepared. You said we were going to a nightclub tonight.”
“Consignment?”
Juliet shrugs a shoulder. “Some of us don’t make hockey player money, Hunter.”
“You should ask me for my credit card the next time you go shopping. It’s better than having to bargain shop.”
“I bought a Loewe skirt with the tags still on it for a fraction of the actual price. Relax. I need to be ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
“It’s just a photo op,” I tell her.
“And?”
I flap a hand as if to say it’s no big deal. “It’s what hockey couples do. The photographers camp outside the clubs. Fans eat it up. Sponsors want those pictures everywhere by tomorrow morning.” I lean back against the couch. “It’s part of the image, part of the job. Whether or not we like it.”
Her mouth twists. “Sounds like a circus.”
“Yeah, but it’s a circus that pays for my ice time. And the entire team will be there. If we skip it, it looks like we’re hiding.”
She narrows her eyes. “Hiding from what?”
I smirk. “From proving we can actually pull this off in public. Unless you don’t think you can keep up.”
Her jaw sets. “Oh, I can keep up. But I’m not staying late.”
“We’ll see.”
She disappears into her room, and I hear the shuffle of hangers, drawers opening, the faint thump of heels on the hardwood. Twenty minutes later, she steps out in a conservative trench coat that covers her from throat to knees.
“Really?” I can’t help it. “You look like you’re going to a board meeting.”
She adjusts the belt at her waist with surgical precision. “Is there a problem with my outfit?”
“You look like you’re about to negotiate a hostile takeover.”
Her smirk is pure trouble. “Wait until you see what’s underneath.”
That shuts me up. My brain is already supplying images I shouldn’t be thinking about.
She moves to the entryway mirror, reapplying the same blood-red lipstick with practiced precision. Smooth application, blot, another coat. Our reflections meet in the glass, and she doesn’t look away.
“Are you done?” I ask, my voice clipped because I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
She blots one last time, then caps the tube. “Just about.”
