Page 83 of Whiskey Splash

“I wasn’t going to!” I said quickly. “I’m not a gold digger, geez.”

“Exactly!” Arie agreed. “You’re a young independent woman who can buy whatever fucking dress she wants, with her own hard-earned dime.”

“Or I’ll sell a kidney on the black market for it.”

“Still your dime,” she insisted.

“A kidney for a dress,” I said dryly. “Charming.”

I flip over a price tag on the nearest gown and do my best to keep my lunch down when I see the amount.

You can afford one beautiful dress in your life, I tell myself, a bit lightheaded. A gorgeous, once-in-a-lifetime-dress that you’ll make Desmond never forget you in. A dress I’ll also use after the party to cook and clean, run errands, do yoga, lounge on the beach, because it will be the only thing in my entire wardrobe after I sell off all my belongings on e-bay to afford it.

I run my hands over the trove of fabrics, elegant satin, beaded brocades, corsets and lace. All of it is finely made and making my inner thirteen-year-old jump up and down like I gave her a pony. I remind myself that this is just a party, not an elaborate ball with men in bandoliers and coattails, or flag-strung trumpets announcing ladies and lords through the echoing hall. But I admit, a huge piece of my life feels like a giant fairytale right now. My prince has already wakened me with his kiss, then ravaged me with his cock enough times to leave me deliciously sore.

“Can I help you find something?” comes a tart voice salted with vinegar, and I turn to the saleswoman beside me. Her hawkish features are severe and her lips purse into a forced smile. Her raptor eyes dart to the rack I’m perusing like I’m a thief, making me drop my hands from the dresses. It’s as if my oily fingertips have already made the gowns unsellable to her proper clientele and now she’ll need to take them out back and burn them.

“Um, yes,” I swallow hard. “I have a, um … a thing to go to, and I need something to wear.”

“Athing?” the saleswoman spits out the word, looking me up and down. A feather of a sneer tugs her lip and I know she doesn’t approve of my casual jeans and grey blouse dotted with tiny pink flowers. I must look like a cheap coupon-cutting-wholesale-rack enthusiast from the way she’s going out of her way to hold her tongue.

“It’s um, a party,” I clarify. “An evening event. Where people eat and—” Her features are stoic as I bumble through my non-specificity. I didn’t really think through what I’d say. Connor just told me to be elusive. However, he forgot my inability to be eloquent, turning everything I say into a tossed verbal-salad. “Actually, I’ll uh, I’ll just look around,” I say finally. “And if I find anything I like, I’ll let you know.”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” she practically hisses. “You do that.”

“Hey,” comes Desmond’s voice over my shoulder. “Sorry, I’m late!”

The saleswoman’s eyes flick past me and her prickly features drain to white. Desmond’s arms wrap around my waist as he kisses me just below the ear, clearly too intimate for us to be friends. And from the pucker of her mouth falling open, I can tell the saleswoman recognizes Desmond, probably having seen all four seasons ofBillionaire Heat.Her eyes narrow as he lingers too long with his head nuzzled in my hair and a shadow of judgement sweeps through the saleswoman’s bird-like frown, asking who the hell amI to be with him? I cough politely at Desmond, nodding to the woman, whose face lights up into a sweet cherry blossom of congeniality the second his attention hits her. She’s a poisonous chameleon, that’s for sure.

“Hi,” Desmond says kindly, reaching out his hand to greet the woman. “Desmond.”

“It’s an honor, Mr. Pike! We’re delighted to have you in the boutique today,” she says, drizzling on the charm, as if you can put sugar on top of a burnt cake and call it brûlée.

“Did we get a dressing room yet?” Desmond asks, his hands moving from my waist to relax on my shoulders. The amount he’s touching me is not lost on the saleswoman and I swear her fists are so tight they could crush coal into a diamond. “And can I get a water?” Desmond continues. “Or maybe you have one of those fizzy drinks?” The authority he speaks with, and the simple fact that he knows those are things he can ask for in a dress shop, lets me know he frequents boutiques like this all the time, reminding me of the riff between our lives.

“Of course, we have Perrier, sir,” the woman nods. “Lime wedge?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

She practically salivates before replying. “Oh no, sir. It would be my absolute pleasure.” Her eyes flick to me, those features held impeccably in a rosy smile, but I see the glimmer of distaste as her gaze glides over me. It’s the same prescriptive look I got when Jeremey’s pictures were distributed, like she knows exactly what I am. My throat tightens as she turns on her heels and heads to the back of the store. Desmond and I haven’t been in public together much, not when anyone knew who he was and looked at me like I’m … garbage.

I’m ready to walk out. I don’t need a dress. This was all a ruse to get Desmond to take me to the party, but maybe he still won’t. The last thing I want is to spend my meager life-savings on a dress I don’t even get to wear. And on top of that, I’ll have to return to this boutique and see the smirk on that saleswoman telling me I’m completely disposable.

Desmond feels the tension in me when I hardly move, not even touching the dresses. His fingers starting to knead into my neck. “Was that woman a bitch to you before I walked in?”

I nod. “Yup.”

Desmond kisses the back of my head, then starts pulling dresses off the rack. “In that case, I think we’re going to have you try on half the store.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, the bleat of a headache starting to bloom. “I don’t need a dress,” I say softly. “We should just go.”

I turn to the door to get out of here before that damn woman comes back, but Desmond catches my elbow. “Hey,” he says softly. “First, no elitist bitch of a woman gets to treat you like dirt. I won’t stand for it. And second, if you leave, then you don’t get to try on this hideous monstrosity!” He holds up a dress that looks like it’s been flocked with chicken feathers. “Did you know poultry-chic was a thing?”

“Oh my god, what died on that dress?” I almost burst out laughing and his eyes soften, happy a little humor could diffuse the situation. “That gives new meaning to the ugly duckling.”

“Fowl is the new black.”

“And she didn’t treat me like dirt,” I say, rolling my shoulders as if her words are a film of discomfort I need to shed. “She just—”

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