Page 84 of Whiskey Splash

“Made you want to leave,” Desmond says, kissing me on the head. “If she did that, then she did enough.”

“Look, I don’t want to make a thing out of it,” I explain. “We can try a couple things on, then get out of here. Forget about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says softly, before lifting up the Chickens-gone-wild monstrosity. “But you’re definitely putting this one on.”

“Why? So you can have nightmares about me as a giant chicken-lady?” I quip, and he pulls me close again.

“Are they naughty nightmares?”

I push him off. “You will never want to touch me again after you see me in that thing.”

“Doubtful,” he teases, leafing through the next rack and pulling out more dresses.

The saleswoman comes back a few minutes later with the drink—decidedly his drink, nothing for me. She hasn’t even offered. A detail that Desmond notes as he loads up her arms in pounds of dresses, before making a show of walking over and handing the drink to me without taking a sip, causing the woman to scowl when he shows her his back.

“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” she asks, spinning her features into daisies and sunshine when he turns back around.

“Nope,” Desmond says curtly. “This is all about the lady.” He nods to me. “Whatever she wants, she gets.”

The woman smiles sourly. “Of course.”

“Oh, and can we see the three dresses in the window,” Desmond points to the elaborate window display up front. The woman’s face falls, revealing that it’s actually a chore to undress the mannequins, or maybe she’s not even supposed to do it. Her eyes flick to me, her lips in a tight line implying those dresses are probably worth a down payment on a house and I shouldn’t be wearing such an extravagance. “Is there a problem?” Desmond asks sharply. “Or should I speak to the manager about—”

“No no no! Of course not, sir,” she balks, zipping up her expressions with a cheery laugh. “I’ll get them out for you right this moment.” She walks away quickly, handing the already mountainous stack of gowns to one of the other girls before she stalks up to the window.

“You’re going to make this the worst sales session of her life, aren’t you?” I ask Desmond under my breath, and he looks at me like I’ve grown a third eye.

“Me? What? I’m a sweetheart. I have no clue what you’re talking about.” He walks up to a rack and pulls out a shimmering sequin number. “Disco ball meets unicorn fashion.”

“That looks like something from Arie’s wardrobe, though you’d be surprised to know teenage me would have sold an arm for something that sparkly.”

“Interesting,” Desmond says, adding it to his stack. “Though that would’ve made the whole masseuse career a little hard, stumpy.” He runs a finger down my arm for emphasis. “And, I rather like your hands.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say quietly, and he pulls my lavender hair back to kiss my neck.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he instructs. “You pick out the dresses you actually like, and I’m going to find the ugliest ones. Then, you’re going to give me a fashion show like we’re in one of those movie montages. Deal?”

“Deal,” I nod.

Desmond raises his arm to the saleswoman. “Miss?” he calls out. “Do you have anything with bows? Like great big giantbows?”

I pinch him in the side. “Don’t be obvious, geez.”

He bats my hand away. “Maybe I have horrible taste. Now get shopping, lady.”

Desmond turns into the customer from hell, getting the woman to run in circles around the store, even making her pull dresses from the back room. Not once does she even come near me, she’s so occupied, and I manage to find a small selection of gowns I’m actually excited about.

They pour us champagne when I parade down their red carpet runway in bows and feathers and sequins. To Desmond’s credit, he’s a better actor than he says he is, pretending to take each one seriously. He even makes the saleswoman call one of the design warehouses to see if they can actually custom design a bow that’s the size of a dolphin.

When we get to the gowns I actually want to try on, I ask if we can make the show a little more private, and the sales woman walks us into a side section of the dressing room with three mirrors around a tiny circular step-pedestal. I tell the sales ladies I can get into these dresses on my own, tired of being stuffed and zipped and clipped and pinched. After all, the dresses I’d actually buy don’t have Desmond’s faux-taste in ruffles and flounces.

I ask if we can have a little privacy and the saleswoman looks at Desmond for permission. He nods, and despite her need to please, the woman actually looks relieved that she’ll get a moment to rest. When they disappear into the front room, Desmond takes a seat near the mirrors and pedestal and I move into the adjacent fitting room to try the first one on.

I start with a spaghetti strap emerald gown that hugs in all the right places and with my lavender hair, makes me look like a mermaid. Desmond’s eyes flair when I come out of the private room and step up on the mini pedestal. All our silly fun from before wrings out of the air as his eyes darken, taking in how the fabric slips over my curves.

“Definitely a contender,” he says in a low purr, and I smile softly.

“Are you sure?” I twist in the mirror, showing off the sexy back side that hugs my ass. “I bet they could put a giant bow right here on my derriere?”

---