Page 18 of Break Me Beautifully
"Getting stressed is what I do. Who wouldn't, in this situation?"
Min looks inside the car, fidgeting. "It's important you finish the art, nothing else should matter." I think she's going to say something else. She bows her head, clasping her hands at the small of her back. "Hope to see you Friday."
"Friday?" I ask, but she's backtracking into the Ramette House. For a moment I stand alone on the sidewalk. The wind tugs at my hair, ruining my coiled bun, toying with my ears until they burn from the chill in a way that reminds me of the heat of Marshall's whispers.
Chapter 7.
"Why are we here?" Iask, staring up at the massive mall bustling with people. There are numerous Christmas trees, not to mention over-sized ornaments dangling from every level that the escalators pass.
Marshall gestures for me to follow. "You need supplies for your show."
"Okay," I agree, having trouble focusing on him when the lights, sounds, and smells of the huge shopping mall assault me. I keep whipping my head around to gawk at the sights. I was never one to shop, and my family blessedly did not drag me along when I resisted. More than that, it feels different to be wandering through such a cheerful atmosphere at the side of a man like Marshall Klintock. "Maybe a smaller art store would have been faster? This place is packed."
"Yes," he says, stepping onto an escalator; I join him. "But we need some other things an art store wouldn't have."
"Like?"
Grinning, he looks up at the glass ceiling, leaning on the escalator railing. His coat hangs open, showing how his shirt strains over his muscular chest beneath. I try not to stare, instead following his eyes upwards. "There's more to making your mark on the world than just skill. You should know this, Ms. Hark.""You're talking about socialite crap."
"Wow, what a mouth."
Rolling my eyes, I follow him onto the second level. "I know all about the idea of presentation. My parents were sticklers for making sure my siblings and I dressed in high end clothing when we'd be at an event."
"Your siblings," he says thoughtfully. "Are they anything like you?"
"God, no," I laugh. "Xalay is the baby, and even at 17, you'd think she was 12, she's such a brat. Celline only cares about being popular online. Katy is the personification of refined. And Willbur ... well."
"Well what?" he presses.
"Nothing. He's just different in a way that's not like me and not like them."
"Tell me how."
He speaks like it's a demand. I pull up short, eyeing his expression. Why does he look so interested? People walk around us, ignoring how we're squaring off in the middle of the packed mall. "Why do you care what my family is like?" I ask warily.
"I'm just trying to understand who you are."
