Blondie looks…decided, but on what, I don’t know. On new clothes? On our agreement? On telling me to go fuck myself?
I’m about to ask when she says, “Just so we’re clear, I’ll wear your fancy clothes, but I won’t lie about who I am.” A strange look crosses her face, and it occurs to me that I recognize it from somewhere. It takes me a moment to recall where from, and my stomach sours all over again as I remember when she confronted me about the list back in March.
Yeah. She had a similar look on her face then—the same anger wrapped in a shroud of hurt.
“If you’re…embarrassed to be seen with a ‘Poor Girl’…” She trails off, rolling her teeth over her bottom lip. Then that look of determination returns, and she jerks her chin up, as defiant as always. “Well, then that sounds like ayouproblem, and you’re more than welcome to go find someone else to play this little fucked-up game of pretend with. I’m perfectly content with who I am.”
There it is. Another verbal slap. Blondie: three. Damian: nil.
I balk, ready to protest, but the words get jumbled in my mouth. “What? I’m not—”Trying to change you,I almost say, but my tongue seems to tie itself into knots, preventing me from finishing that sentence. Frustrated, I grind out, “I was only thinking?—”
That I don’t want to know you.
And if she pretends to be someone else, I won’t have to.
But I can’t exactly tell her that, and when I glimpse the hurt in her expression again, all the air rushes out of my lungs, like I’ve just taken a punch to the diaphragm.
“You know what?” I say once I’ve caught my breath. “Never mind. It’s fine. No lying necessary. You just be your charming self, Dornan. Should be easy for you.”
Whether it will be easy for me, though, remains to be seen.
“So, we’re good?” she hedges.
I force a smile and make the Scouts honor three-fingered salute, then press the button to turn the ignition back on. “More than good. Now, let’s go! We don’t have all day!”
I flick on my indicator to merge back into traffic, and as I drive onto the freeway, I hear her mutter under her breath, “This is going to be a long nine months.”
For once, we’re in total agreement.
A short journey later, I pull into the small, mostly empty parking lot of The Couture Room, a luxury fashion boutique located on the outskirts of Warwick. It’s what my mother would call a hidden gem because it’s just outside Providence instead of inside the city (meaning no crowds), and shopping here is by appointment only, so customers can browse and try on all the high-end brands in peace…and without the hassle of uptight divas like my mother having to integrate with the common rabble. There are also personal shoppers on hand to help, making it the perfect place for this particular outing since I have a feeling Blondie’s going to hate playing dress up and the last thing we need is for our first public appearance together to devolve into an argument. Plus, the staff here have strict conduct rules regarding discussing their clientele, so I feel safe in the knowledge that whatever happens at The Couture Room will stay at The Couture Room, and not get blasted on social media, meaning we have some control over how—and when—our relationship is introduced to the world.
Parking, I turn off the ignition and climb out of the car, and Blondie follows suit, though I note only one set of footsteps on the sun-soaked pavement as I amble toward the door. Looking over my shoulder, I notice Blondie lingering beside the car, the passenger-side door still open, staring up at the boutique shop sign like we’ve just entered her own personal hell.
“You’re not trying to…Richard Gere me, are you?” Her tone is accusatory as she pins the full force of those lovely eyes on my face. “Like, you do know we aren’t re-enactingPretty Woman, right?” She then mutters something I can’t quite make out, but sounds a lot like, “Fucking Andie.”
I release a long breath. “Nothing in there will kill you, I promise. And if it makes you feel better, you can veto anything you try on today. I want you to be comfortable in what you’re wearing.”
Blondie hesitates. “I don’t care about any of that. It’s just…before we go in there, about the rules?—”
“Rules again?” I groan. “Wow, you’re just heaps of fun, aren’t you?”
“I’m serious.” She throws another uneasy glance at the boutique, this time at the mannequins donning designer labels and handbags displayed in the window. “Wearing nice clothes and plastering on a fake smile is one thing, but…is that”—pulling a face, she brandishes a hand in the direction of the shop—“really all you’re expecting of me?”
I stiffen. “What do you mean?”
She sucks in her cheeks and gives me a skeptical look. “Imean,” she begins after a discomforting pause, “you’re paying me fifteen grand a month. There has to be more you want.”
My mouth pops open at the implication behind her words, framing a silent gasp. I’m not sure whether I should be more offended that she thinks I would need to pay for sex or that I would go to such tedious lengths to specifically fuckher,especially when I’ve already had a taste of that particular pie. I might have done some crazy shit for the sake of my conquests before, but even I can admit this would be excessive.
I narrow my eyes at Blondie, who takes advantage of my shock to double down. “I need some assurances you won’t try any…funny business.”
“Funny business,” I deadpan. “What are you, a 1930s gangster? Just say what you’re really thinking, Dornan.”
Her brows knit together. “There won’t be a repeat of what happened between us last week, got it? As far as you’re concerned, I have a bubble that says ‘Do not touch’ around me at all times.”
“Well, we’ll have to touchsometimes,” I point out. “To trick the parentals, of course,” I tack on when the scowl on her face deepens. “And the internet. But if it will put your mind at ease, I wasn’t planning on trying to fuck you again. Ever.”
I already learned the hard way what comes from fucking Lexi Dornan, and I don’t plan on making the same mistake twice.
