There’s a very understandably long pause before Martha replies cautiously, “How much time?”
“It depends.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Martha steps away as my phone starts to ring.
It’s Brice.
I grab my phone and send the call to voice mail. It’s probably not how Jana would have handled the situation, but I’m a work in progress. The phone begins ringing again. I panic and send it to voice mail again.
“Unzip,” I demand of the dress as I wrestle with the zipper again. My phone rings again. This time I answer and sit down on the bench behind me. “Sorry. I called by accident.”
“What’s wrong?” His tone is concerned.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean to dial you. Okay? I need to go.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
I’d love to blame the dress, but it’s mostly because he has a voice that finally explains how phone sex is possible. I’ve always thought there was no way a voice could turn me on, but I was wrong. He’s hardly said a word and I feel all flushed and confused.
Nope, not going to say that out loud. “I’m dealing with a little situation, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“A situation? Look around, do you see Charles?”
“He’s not here.” I peek under the door for his shoes and relax when I don’t see them. I’m getting used to having Charles around, but that would have been a bit much. “You really do need to stop asking him to check on me; I’m fine.”
“Are you? Then tell me where you are. What kind of situation have you gotten yourself into?”
Nothing like his tone implies. Oh, what the hell. “I’m stuck . . .” I finish in a mumble that was likely unintelligible “…in a dress.”
“You’re stuck where?” The urgency in his voice makes it impossible for me to not explain. I can’t let him believe I’ve been sold into some underground sex ring.
“In a dress,” I say clearly. “I’m at a clothing store. I thought dress shopping would be fun but none of them fit right and this last one is apparently a carnivore. The zipper won’t budge.”
He chuckles. “You’re stuck in a dress?”
“Wedged. Jammed. Crushed.”
“Maybe put the thesaurus down to start and take a deep breath.”
“I can’t take a deep breath because this dress is ridiculously tight.”
“What’s your plan?” I hear his smile and it makes me want to smack him.
“My plan? Do I sound like I have one? Outside of possibly hiding in this dressing room until closing time. Or climbing up into the duct work and escaping that way.”
“Unlikely you’d make it far in a tight dress.”
“Thanks. You’re a real help.”
“What color is the dress? I’m trying to imagine the scene.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t. This is too amusing.”
“Brice.” His name is all I can muster before my voice cracks. It’s enough. He suddenly stops joking.
“Hang on.” He mutes our call and I almost end it. In the silence, embarrassment floods in. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Really, I should just ask Martha to set me free. She won’t care. I’m the problem here—me and my damn pride. “Do you have lip balm?”
“I do.”
“My sister says if you put some on your finger and then run it along the zipper it should release.”
“Your sister?” The idea that Brice is a brother, part of a family, surprises me. I pictured him as some kind of island. An autonomous man who doesn’t need anything. But somewhere there’s a sister.
I put the phone down beside me and try it. Like magic, it works. The zipper comes free and slides down the side of the dress all the way to my hip. “Oh thank God,” I sigh as I break free from the dress and catch my breath again. “I thought I would never get out of there.”
“You good now?” Grumpy Brice is sexy, amused Brice is infuriating but still hot, sweet Brice is nearly irresistible.
That thought is quickly followed by the realization that I still need to find a dress. I’ve lost all enthusiasm for shopping though. One task. Jana gave me one task, and I’ve already proven incapable. “Yeah. I am. Thank your sister for me.”
“I will. There’s still something wrong. What is it?”
“Nothing. What could be? I’m free to go forth and try on another hundred dresses.” I make a face at myself in the mirror. Suck it up, buttercup. “I’ll find something. I just should have left myself more time. I need it by tonight. I’ve got this, though.”
“Why do you need a dress by tonight?”
I open my mouth to reply then remember I’m not supposed to say anything. Even if I could, he wouldn’t approve of what I’m doing anyway. Thankfully, my life and my choices don’t require his approval.
When I don’t answer, he says, “No one is better at picking out the perfect dress for a woman than a man.”
“Really?” There might be a lot I have to learn about Boston and shopping, but I recognize bullshit a mile away.
“If you don’t agree, you’ve never been with the right man.”
I don’t answer and his comment hangs in the air as if he just remembered I haven’t been. When he speaks again, his voice is a purr. “I’d love to show you how good . . . dress shopping can be. And if you get stuck in another, I promise I’ll assist you.”
I huff at that. “I bet you’re an expert at undressing women.”
“No. Not an expert.” He chuckles. “More of an enthusiast.”
I can’t help but smile. I want to see him again. I know I shouldn’t. There’s still time to hit a few other stores on my own. The idea of laughing with him is infinitely more appealing than spending the rest of the day shopping alone.
He’s right. Men know what looks good.
Sure it seems a little crazy. A little impulsive. But isn’t that all relative? Compared to everything else, agreeing to go shopping with him hardly seems odd at all.
Plus, I could really get stuck in another dress. Then what would I do?
“There’s another store on this block. Do you want the address?”
“No, I have a certain place in mind. They’ll have exactly what you need.”
Looks like it’s time to either figure out how to use the T or Uber. Or hail another cab. Lance said a lot of stupid things, but his comment about what would happen if I ran out of money woke me up to how careful I need to be. I’ll go back to Coppertop to visit, but not for forever and definitely not because it’s my only option. “Send me the address.”
“I just texted Charles. He’ll take you.”
“Good ole Chucky.”
“He smiles when you call him that. Not many could get away with calling him a nickname.”
“That’s sweet.” It is, but I never had a problem being one of the guys. I want more.
“Find Charles out front, and I’ll meet you at the store.”
I pull my bag over my shoulder and hang the woman-eating dress back on the hanger. It would be easy to start doubting myself, doubting Jana. Do I really think having my hair done and putting on a dress will make me into a woman who turns heads?
What’s the alternative? Go back to being the woman who smells a little like engine oil and chicken wings? Someone who works every night so she won’t sit home alone? I want to start each day excited about the possibilities the day might hold. I want to claim my space, find my dreams again.
The real wakeup call for me was when my grandmother’s nurse asked me what I would do now that she was gone . . . would I go back to school? Would I travel? What were my dreams? It wasn’t until that moment I realized I don’t have dreams. No goals. Nothing to strive for.
Somehow I died along with my grandmother. Slowly, a little bit more every day . . . until there was nothing left of me.
Only that doesn’t have to be my story. I don’t have to accept that fate.
I’ve only been in Boston a coup
le of days, and I already feel more alive than I’ve felt in years. I don’t care if what I’m doing makes sense to anyone else—I’m not going back to how I was.
I’m still lost in that thought as I see Charles standing beside a sedan. He holds open the front passenger door and I smile because he knows me. He doesn’t bother trying to get me to ride in the back anymore. We’re making progress.
“Savannah. It’s good to see you again.”
Before getting in, I do a little spin for him. “What do you think of the hair? Nice, right? The place you sent me to was amazing. I can’t thank you enough for convincing them to squeeze me in.”
He smiles. “You look lovely. I’m happy I was able to help.”
I climb in. He walks around and gets into the car. “We are dress shopping, I hear.”
“That’s the goal.” I fiddle with my seat belt as he pulls into traffic.
“Come now, it can’t be all that bad. Shopping always puts my wife in a good mood.”
“You’re married?”
“Thirty years.”
“Brice isn’t, is he?” The question bursts out of me.
Charles glances at me before answering. “No, he is not married.”
I sigh with relief. “Not that it really matters. We’re just friends. But I wouldn’t want to meet up with him if he was.”
“No, that wouldn’t be prudent.”
Prudent. I’m not entirely sure what that means. Prudish. Like a prude? Or not like a prude? Like a whore? I take out my phone and look the word up. Oh, acting with care for the future. I like that. “Yes, and I do want to be . . . prudent.
He gives me another look. “Remember my daughters? One is twenty-two and the other is twenty-five.”
I relax. “That’s so nice.”
“I would not allow either of them to date Brice.”
A chill settles over me. What the hell? “Is he a criminal?”
“No, but nor is he who he appears. Be careful, Savannah. I wouldn’t like to see you get hurt.”
My eyes round. “I wouldn’t like to see that either.”
We pull up to the front of a small shop. I step out of the car and look back at him curiously. “This is the place?” It doesn’t look like a store that would sell dresses. It’s a tailor shop and an older one at that. The wooden door is thick with many layers of paint and the stone at the base of the doorway is cracked. Nope, I’m not going in.
Charles is beside me, taking note of my concern. “I shouldn’t have said anything earlier. I merely meant that you’re an innocent, and Brice hasn’t shown an affinity to remaining with one woman.”
Although his explanation makes me feel a little better, I’m still not keen to go in. “This was a bad idea. I’m just going to go—”
The door of the shop opens and a woman waves for us to enter.
I look from Charles to her and back. I can run. I’m fast, so I can probably outrun him. The woman waves again, with less patience. I’ve never been a coward. I allowed someone I’d never met before to lather a good portion of my nether regions with wax yesterday. That required a good amount of trust.
I survived it and outside of a slight residual discomfort, I’m pleased with the results. Brice did nothing to make me think I can’t trust him. Sure, his driver has more or less shadowed me since I met him, but that is because he is worried for me.
And hearing that Brice isn’t one for monogamy? Since all we are doing is dress shopping, isn’t that irrelevant?
I take a step toward the door. It is silly to be worried. Brice met my friends—heard my life story. He knows there’s no one to pay a ransom if his goal is kidnapping.
I shake my head. Everything he said about Jana and her possible motives is starting to make me paranoid. Totally creepy, hole-in-the-wall shops could contain an extensive collection of dresses.
Right?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Brice
The turn-of-the-century furniture reminds me of our oceanside palace. Maybe that’s why I keep returning to this shop.
I heard about the place when I moved into Bachelor Tower. Boston has an elite sub-culture, places one can only access via a recommendation from another client. I glean a certain amount of satisfaction from the knowledge that I gained access on the merit of my business dealings, not on my family name. Through me, the owner Miguel has gained several prominent clients, and his gratitude is my currency today.
His specialty is not women’s clothing, but his connections are far reaching. I asked him to have the best of the season available, and it’s already being delivered via the back of the store.
Miguel is a round-faced man with thick glasses and only a ring of wispy hair that runs around the back of his head from ear to ear. His thin lips never smile, and he does more talking to himself than to his clients.
He’s a perfectionist with a keen eye for fashion. He knows his trade on a cellular level. Every detail. Every nuance of the industry. I respect that.
“Who is this woman you want me to dress?” he demands as he sorts through the latest delivery.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. Some of these dresses are straight from the runway, others vintage. People will know where they came from. I’ll dress your wife, your sister, but not your mother or your mistress.”
“I’m not married, my mother will be disappointed, and Savannah is a friend.”
He stops and his bushy eyebrows cock up. “You’re generous with your friends, or is she paying?”
“Regardless of the dress she chooses, you are to tell her the cost is a hundred dollars. I’ll cover the rest, but she’s proud and there’s no need for her to know the actual price.”
Miguel hums. “So she’s a fool.”
“Inexperienced in these matters.”
A light sparks in his eyes. “Ah, I understand. Of course. Everything is on sale today.”
I shift uncomfortably. “You don’t understand, but your discretion is all I require.”
Miguel bows. “Of course, your majesty.”
My head snaps back, but then I realize he’s merely mocking me, responding to a haughty tone I hadn’t realized I sometimes sport until I came to the states. “One more thing. I choose the dress.”
I’m not about to explain to him that although I want Savannah to look good, there is no way in hell I’m going to send her out to God knows where looking too good. Not if where she’s going might have something to do with the Monroe woman.
He shrugs and busies himself with a fresh rack of dresses that one of his workers just wheeled in. One of his assistants walks in and announces the arrival of Savannah. When she steps inside my jaw drops and all my blood heads south.
Her clothing is similar to what I saw her in the night before, but her face has a glow to it, like a woman who is fresh from being loved. Her hair is a shade or two lighter and shines in the light of the shop. My heart is thudding loudly in my chest. My cock is straining to come out and see her for himself.
She shoots me a tentative smile, and I doubt I can remember my own name in this moment.
“You found the place,” I say because it’s all I can think to say.
Her smile widens. “Technically, Charles did.” She looks around. “Wow, there really are dresses.” She steps closer, so close I catch the scent of her. It’s fresh, unique, and addictive.
“Did you doubt me?” I ask.
“I did.” Her lips part slightly as she speaks. Her eyes darken in response to the pulse of sexual tension between us. Miguel and his staff fade away until there is only Savannah and how much I want her.
“You’re a constant surprise to me as well.”
“Enough of that.” Miguel makes a tsking sound. “Turn around for me. I need to know what I’m working with.”
Savannah spins.
“Slower,” he orders impatiently. “This is not a dance recital.”
Our eyes meet as she begins to turn slowly, breaking contact only briefly. It feels intim
ate and sexual, even though I’m not the one she’s displaying herself to.
There’s a fire in her eyes that makes me rethink that.
Miguel marches off to pull dresses from a rack. He hangs them beside a closet-sized changing area blocked off by only a small curtain. That little curtain will be the only thing between Savannah’s half-naked body and me.
Miguel claps his hands, snapping our attention back to him. “You need something that comes in at the waist. Your hips are full. Your waist is small. These dresses will work for that.” Miguel pushes his glasses up on his nose and waits impatiently for Savannah to move.
Savannah’s hands slide to her hips as her brows furrow. I want to tell her I’ve felt her hips, and they’re perfect. Memorable. Great to grip. Instead I move to the dresses and feign interest in them.
“Cocktail party? Formal attire?” Miguel grumbles.
I glance back at Savannah. “Good question. Where are you going tonight?”
If my question surprised Miguel, he is hiding it well.
“It’s a charity event,” Savannah says through pursed lips. “Formal.”
Miguel circles her like a vulture, eyeing her closely. “What is your date wearing?”
“I don’t have one.” Her eyes meet mine and then flutter away like a butterfly. “I don’t want one.”
“This black one.” Miguel hands her a tiny cocktail dress. She carries it into the changing area. He snaps the curtain closed between us. My view of her beneath the curtain is nothing that would be featured in a porn, but it’s enough to kill my ability to think.
She steps out of her flats, kicking them aside.
Next her slacks pool at her feet before she steps out of them as well.
Two bare feet should not be enough to hold me there, mesmerized. But they are.
She lowers her voice and leans her head out of the curtain toward me. I’m rock-hard, but she looks oblivious to what she’s doing to me. “Big hips? This guy better really know his stuff because otherwise he’s just an ass. Hopefully I can get my fat hips through this dressing room opening to get out.”
“Maybe turn sideways.” The wink I offer only solicits a growl from her. It’s from annoyance, but I don’t mind. No man in my present state cares about much at all. “Just put the dress on.” So, maybe I can think again.
Undeniable Bachelor (Bachelor Tower Series Book 3) Page 14