“I promise I’ll be okay. I’ll text you when I get home tonight.”
“Yeah,” he takes a step forward, “that would make me feel better.”
We’re not close enough for anything to happen, but we aren’t so far away that I should wave and say goodnight. Declan gives a slight tug to my hand to close the distance a little more.
“Are you sure you want to move slow?” he asks.
“Didn’t you say that you were happy we were moving slow?”
“Yeah,” his breathing is deepening as he moves closer still, “but I say stupid things sometimes.”
I bite my lip and take a step toward him. Rising up on my toes, I plant a kiss on his cheek and whisper, “Goodnight, Declan.”
The pressure of his palm catches the small of my back, and I can feel that he wishes it could be more. True to his down home roots, he remains a gentleman and releases my waist.
“Goodnight, Max,” he says as I step away.
Chapter 16
It takes the full forty minutes to get over to Bridal World, exactly like Declan predicted, and that’s why I’m smiling as I climb out of the car to retrieve my bag from the trunk. Thank goodness I listened to him. There’s a security guard waiting at the front door. He eyes me as if I might be a criminal.
That happens a lot in this city.
I smile, because I’m sure most murderers don’t bother to smile, so maybe he can lay off a little. It seems like he might inspect my bag, but he opens the door without a word. Now I’m a little worried that I might be the one getting murdered.
I pass through the tall door to Bridal World and take in the expansive room stuffed full of white. The room is dim, only half lit by the overhead fluorescents, but it’s easy enough to make out the dresses on mannequins, dresses on racks, dresses splayed over the couches, and dresses in the window. I’m definitely in the right place.
“Hello,” a chipper woman says as she approaches me. Her hair is cut in a blunt bob, all wrong for her slightly pudgy face and wide-set eyes. “I’m Joanna. I believe we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, thank you for meeting me. I’ve got the dress right in here,” I say and I pat the bag once to give her the idea.
“Hmm,” her lips make the sound even though they never part. “Not the first time I’ve seen a dress packed that way, but we can see what we can do.”
I’ve been around the block enough to realize when someone doesn’t think much of me. It takes all of my will power not to demand better service, but I resist because above it all I’m a lady, and I won’t sink to her level. I follow her through rows of white. I can’t help but realize the bullet I’ve dodged by not marrying Reg. The mere thought of it makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Joanna pushes open a door and leads me into a back room. “I’ll get the appraiser, you…” she hesitates as she eyes my plastic bag once more, “set up.”
I save my over the top eye roll until she’s closed the door behind her. The plastic crinkles as I tear at it to spill the contents of silk and tulle out to the floor. Utilizing the mannequin in the corner, I slip the dress over the top, zip up the back and set to work pulling twigs and leaves from the hem. It’s almost humorous how much I’m left with, at least enough to build a nest for a wren, when Joanna returns with the appraiser. I toss the bundle of branches on the chair in the corner and Joanna frowns again. My mother would have something to say about her investment in future wrinkles.
“What have we here?” the appraiser says. He’s tall and slender, dressed in pinstripes that accentuate his bean pole physique. “This isn’t a bad piece at all, Joanna.”
Joanna goes from fine to flustered faster than a NASCAR engine coming out of a pit stop. “I didn’t say it was a bad dress. Merely that the packaging was slightly underwhelming.”
Bean Pole picks a couple leaves out of the bodice and finally acknowledges me. “Braxton McGiveny, and you are?”
I hesitate to give my name, but the likelihood of anyone putting it together on the west coast is still slim.
“Harper Sutton, sir.” I didn’t mean to but a little of my accent slipped out at the end.
It clicks because for a moment his eyes narrow. “And who is the designer of this dress, Ms. Sutton?”
“Aria Borealis.” I wait for the shock and excitement to burst free of him.
Instead he laughs, not a large gut filled laugh, but a soft chuckle as if I must be an idiot. Before he can correct me, I unzip the back and flash her signature on the interior of the bodice.
“It’s real,” I say and my accent is as thick as pudding.
Braxton’s laughter stops. He pulls out a magnifying glass to examine the signature. “This has to be forged. She only makes three dresses a year and…” his voice trails off with his thoughts. “Joanna, bring me the magazine on my desk, quickly please.”
She disappears out the door and Braxton looks at me, far more suspicious than before. “Where did you get this dress?”
“It’s mine,” I tell him. “If you’re not wanting to buy it, I’ll go and find someone who is.”
The door slams behind the breathless Joanna, and she extends the magazine to Braxton. He snatches it and starts flipping through the pages.
“Here!” He starts tapping the page with a thick finger. “I knew I saw this dress. You must have stolen it from this girl,” his eyes search the page for her name and when he finds it, he doesn’t say another word.
“Harper Sutton,” I say my name again. “I’m wearing a lot more makeup for that photoshoot, but cross my heart, that’s me.”
“But the wedding was last week. You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon,” Joanna says as if the numbers won’t add up.
“And yet here I am,” I say. “Look, some things don’t take. I’m looking to unload this dress and I’m sure you’d love to add a one of a kind haute couture dress to your racks, so why don’t you be a doll and make me an offer?”
“Harper Sutton, of Sutton’s Devil’s Harp Ale?” Joanna asks in a soft voice.
“Dyed in the wool.”
“We can give you two thousand for it,” Braxton says with a slight quaver to his voice. He wants it. He wants it real bad, but he thinks I’m desperate. Okay, I am a little, but my daddy didn’t raise no fool.
“Try again, or I walk.”
“That’s not how this works, Miss Sutton,” Braxton says. “It is a consignment shop. I can offer you a low cash now price, or you can wait for someone to buy it and you’ll get sixty percent.”
I sink down on the chair. “How long are we talking? A few days?”
“It’s not that easy, it’ll take a couple weeks, maybe longer. We can get you two today, I know we have that on hand, maybe three if you wait until next week, but if you want the high price, it will take a few weeks at least.”
I consider his words. I might not be here in a couple weeks, but if I need to make a break for it, at least I have a promised bid.
“Put it in writing.” I screw my lips together so I’ll look tougher than I feel.
“Absolutely,” Braxton says and he extends a hand to me.
“One more thing,” I leave his hand hovering there, “if I ever come in again I will not answer to the name Harper Sutton. You have not met me, you do not know me, and I do not have a dress on consignment here.”
The hesitation is intense and coupled with a few errant glances toward the gown still strapped to the dress form.
“Understood,” Braxton agrees. “Whatever you’d like.” But it’s not until Joanna nods in agreement that I’m willing to move forward.
I take his hand in mine and grip it tight. Where I come from a handshake is as binding as the contract, but I have a feeling I better guard the paperwork just the same. Maybe I should be sad to leave the dress there in the appraiser’s room, but we were never friends. It served as a new pair of shackles my mother picked out for me. I am more than happy to drop those chains and be free at last.
Chapter 17
All day long I dread yoga. I’ve done it in the past. A couple girls I went to college with dragged me a few times. I went in the hopes of making friends, only to find out from my mother that they weren’t an acceptable type of friends. They didn’t come from money and, heaven forbid, one of them was dyslexic. I didn’t care, but mother did, and there went my choice.
Because of those couple prior experiences, I’m pretty sure that this won’t end well. And yet, I’m supposed to be amazing. He’s likely suspecting some sexy bending and maybe a chance to align my hips and chakras for me. What will actually happen is more like an old woman falling down some stairs.
I skipped all other workouts because I knew I needed to be able to control my body, not wobble like a baby deer. There’s a small part of me that hopes all my early morning exercise will pay off. Maybe burpees, sprinting and endless pushups will translate into some yoga goddess movement and the entire class will be in awe.
Not likely. But hopeful.
We work well together, Declan and I. To the outward eye we’re completely professional, albeit happy, but professional. I keep my hands to myself, and he does likewise. It’s only the occasional flirtatious wink when we’re alone that could tip someone off. Meanwhile, the work is getting done.
“I have an appointment with Bridal World,” Declan says as he shifts one of the proofs in front of me at the conference table, “would you like to come along?”
“When?”
“About an hour. We can hit that, and then swing back here in time for class.”
“Cutting it close, don’t you think?” I’m learning that even though much of the city is close together, it doesn’t mean that it won’t take forever to get there.
“I think we’ll be okay,” Declan says. I feel his gaze drift over my face, not reading the expression, just appreciating what he sees. I’m sure he has no idea that I’m about to crush this proof in my hand because of the way he sets me on fire.
An idea occurs to me. There’s no way he’s going to make it in time if he leaves in an hour and thinks he’s going to be back in less than that for class. If I go with him, maybe we’ll be entirely too late and I’ll get out of the yoga class after all. Meanwhile, I won’t look like I’m avoiding it.
“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” I say. I initial the bottom corner of the proof because the piece is flawless.
His stack of papers rattles against the desk as he tries to straighten them. “Great get your purse, let’s go.”
“Wait, now?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says it like I’m crazy, “we have to beat traffic.”
I realize he meant the meeting is in an hour, and it might take some strategic stalling on my part to ensure we’re not back for class.
∞ ∞ ∞
Greg comes with us. The trip feels ten times longer with him along, but two analysts are better than one. Right?
I’m not sure as he tells the third off color joke along the way. Declan doesn’t laugh. I don’t know why Greg keeps trying. Declan even turns up the radio in hopes of drowning him out, but that only makes Greg yell over the music instead.
My head hurts and my patience is short when we pull into the parking lot at Bridal World. Greg climbs out first and starts for the doors. Declan holds back with a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t care for him very much. I should have brought Nix.”
“Nix isn’t an analyst,” I remind him. “He’s a designer.”
“I know, but he’s not a macho pig either.”
I laugh and feel some of the tension leave the car. Declan turns so he can face me in the back seat of his sedan. “How about you ride up front on the way home? Then I can hold your hand and maybe I’ll stay calm.”
The idea brings a smile to my face, but obviously it’s not appropriate.
“How about you hold my hand this weekend, when we go out again?”
Declan’s brow crinkles. “Do we have a date?”
“No,” I admit, “but I figure you’re going to ask me after class tonight.”
I love the way he chuckles and there’s a hint of pink in his cheeks. “Well, maybe. I have Rory again starting tonight. She’s my world, but she does put a kink in my dating life.”
He opens the door before I make this real. It can’t be real. I only have six days left.
Greg makes a few crude jokes about why we took so long in the car. Declan’s hands clench into fists, tighten and then release. He catches the door from where Greg has lost it and holds it open so I can duck inside.
Every light is on this time, and now the haze of white is obnoxious. Brides mill around the space. Every one of them looks like an infant next to the choice they’re all about to make. I’ve become too jaded since I climbed out that window.
“Garnet Associates to see Joanna Mills,” Declan tells the girl behind the counter.
My eyes widen at the mention of her name. I pray she can remember to keep my identity a secret.
“Right this way,” the receptionist says before she leads us past the rows of white and corresponding brides, past the appraisal rooms and my quick glimpse of Braxton who goes ghost white when he sees me, and straight to an office at the opposite side of the building.
Her office is at least ten degrees cooler than the hallway and I notice the chill as I walk in. I shake her hand and I know she recognizes me because her eyes go wide, but I give no indication that we’ve ever met. The chair I sink into is leather, cold leather, as though the AC has been blasting it to ice cube status. Thank goodness because I feel my skin lighting up like my secrets are burning me from the inside out.
“Thank you for having us,” Declan says. “My name is Declan Thorpe. I’m the analyst you’ve been conversing with. This is Greg Spiro, another analyst, and this,” he motions to me, and Joanna is listening with rapt attention to what name I’ll have, “is Indigo Maxwell, one of our top marketing consultants and designers.”
Curiosity pricks in her eyes, but I want to sink into the depths of my chair. “Oh really?” Joanna asks. “A marketing consultant?”
The woman can undo me with a few words, but I know she wants the commission from my dress. Weapons of mutual destruction, that’s what we are.
Declan only gives her a cursory glance because of her behavior before he starts again. “Tell me about what you’re wanting to accomplish.”
Thankfully, it’s enough to distract her. She drones on and on about having a thrift shop image because of the consignment aspect of the shop, when really it’s a very small portion of their sales. Joanna whines that the name itself makes them sound cheap, and she’s not sure how to change the image so that they can tap into a high-end clientele.
“After all,” she says, “we have high-end dresses. We have one originally priced at twenty thousand dollars.”
I don’t miss the smug look Joanna sends me.
“Who would spend that on a dress?” Greg says. “I mean, what is it? Covered in diamonds?”
I resist the urge to tell him that there are in fact thirty-five diamonds sewn into the beadwork of the bodice. They’re tiny, but they’re there. Instead, I notice the look of disgust on Declan’s face at the idea of such extravagance.
Is that what he’d think of my previous life? It’s not like I ever asked for the dress, or the privilege. It came as a birthright, but if he knew me, really knew where I came from, would he still be interested? Maybe it’s best that this won’t last after all.
“I know you’ve sent me some of your previous campaigns, but do you have your most recent?” Declan asks Joanna.
“Yes,” Joanna pushes back from her chair, “wait here a moment. I’ll have Trina get those for me.”
She disappears into the hall and I can’t help but feel relieved. Declan leans forward and snags a bridal magazine from Joanna’s desk. He flips through the pictures, glancing at the articles, studying what he’s seeing in the way only Declan can.
“Sounds like she needs
a total overhaul,” Greg says. “But it’s not like we can rename the joint. We can’t fix everything.”
“No,” I say, “but maybe a few suggestions will help move this more high-end. Perhaps appointment only, so it feels limited. Hide the dresses away so they don’t have that department store feeling. Cater to the brides with champagne and chocolates, so they feel doted on. They could collect information for local vendors, have cake tasting parties, really specialize in what the bride needs without feeling cheap. Change the feel of it and it’s no longer Bridal World, the super store for wedding dresses, instead it’s Bridal World, the place brides go where everything revolves around them.”
Greg nods, and I see some sense of agreement in his eyes. Except it’s not his opinion I’m interested in, it’s Declan’s. But he’s staring at the magazine, lost in a picture he’s found. I glance down thinking it’s a brilliant ad, but no, the first thing I see is Reg, and he’s holding Cadence, and I’m in my dress, draped lazily across the saddle, blonde hair trailing over my shoulders.
He can see it.
He knows.
I can’t breathe. There’s no excuse, no reason good enough to explain why I’m in the picture. I’m completely trapped.
“Whatcha find?” Greg asks as he leans over Declan’s arm. “Ooo, she’s hot.”
Declan’s lips are parted. He’s staring at the picture as if it holds the secret to life.
“She’s Indigo,” he whispers. Then his face turns to me, then back to the magazine, then back to me again. “Geez, she could be your twin, Max.”
He doesn’t know. And I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
“She’s blonde,” I argue, because that’s what Indigo said the first time Hazel tried to convince her. “We don’t look anything alike.”
“Yeah,” Greg agrees, “that chick is way hotter.”
“Everyone has a twin somewhere,” I try again, and it’s ridiculous because my almost-a-twin is what got me into this mess.
Pre-Approved Identity Theft Page 11