“You can’t just say my name like this is all reasonable. Do you know what you can do with three thousand dollars?”
“Yes, I can buy my girlfriend a dress.”
I start to sweat (probably perfuming the shop with the essence of coconut) and pull at the neck of my T-shirt.
“You didn’t even splurge on first-class plane tickets,” I point out.
“That’s because we were only on the plane for four hours.”
“I doubt I’m going to wear this dress much longer.”
“It’s fine,” Noah assures me with a chuckle, looking at me like I’m overreacting. “Just consider it a job-related expense.”
“Dressing me up is part of your job?”
“Tonight? Yes.”
“My truck didn’t even cost this much.”
“Have you seen your truck?”
He laughs when I jab him in the side.
Politely, the saleswoman ignores our conversation, though she sends me a dark look while running the card, probablyworried I’m going to convince Noah to abandon the sale. But now that the transaction is complete, she gives us a broad smile and offers me a shiny black bag—the fussy, cardstock type with ribbons for handles. “Thank you for your purchase,” she purrs. “Please think of us next time you have a special occasion.”
She’s obviously on commission. Noah probably just bought her son a new gaming console.
We leave the store and step into the Florida sunshine.
“Just how much do you make now?” I demand, clutching the bag with a death grip, terrified someone is going to swipe it. If we run into a pickpocket, hopefully he’ll take my purse. There’s not anything of value in there.
“The raise was substantial,” he says.
“Like yearly-vacation-in-Palm-Beach substantial? Or let’s-buy-a-summer-home-in-Palm-Beach substantial?”
Noah smiles to himself. “I’m sure that will depend on if we make wise investments.”
I blanch a little, feeling ill, and it has nothing to do with the sun. “I don’t think we can date anymore. I don’t want to be a gold digger.”
Noah laughs, shaking his head. “You liked me before I got the promotion.”
“If we get married, will I even have to work?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
I shake my head violently. “Nope, I can’t do it. My work ethic will go right out the window. I’ll just lie around all day in our spacious Colorado chateau, eating chocolate truffles while our trio of maids does all the housework.”
“You can’t eat chocolate truffles,” Noah points out. “I think you’re safe.”
“You’re ruining the image.”
“Piper, I know exactly what you’ll do with money—you’ll buy name-brand hairspray and then stress about it for four weeks while clipping coupons.”
“You don’t have to clip coupons anymore—they’ve all gone digital.”
He sets his hands on my shoulders and leans down to meet my eyes. The move is so adorably Noah, I can’t help but smile.
“Just wear the dress, all right?” he says. “We’ll worry about vacation homes, chocolate truffles, and staff later.”
