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"Why aren’t you wearing a suit?" I ask, and the question sounds ridiculous, and I’m not even sure why I ask it.
"I didn’t have anything to prove, and it would stand out too much," he replies casually as he helps me out of the car, his hand warm on mine. The fresh air of the day wakes up my senses, the sunlight pouring over me, as I glance around the street. Sam would die to be someplace like this, if she could set foot outside of the home. Throat tight with feeling, I push thoughts of her away. She’s safe in our building, with enough cash to pay anyone to run errands for her. Last time she’d checked in with me, she promised me she was okay. I’m staying away because I have to. The Viper, I’m sure, is watching me.
I pretend to look around at the shops, scanning the faces of people far and near, looking for him. He wants me close to Luca, as much as possible, so there’s no way he’s not having me watched, or watching me himself.
"Chanel first?" Luca asks, and just the name of the French fashion boutique has my stomach dropping, the expensive taste of the shop not something I could afford, even if I had saved for ages. What do their purses cost, like north of eight thousand dollars? IT seems like such a waste to me, but there’s no way I can ask him to take me to a Goodwill.
"Maybe," I reply, and his arm slides around my waist.
"Or maybe not," he murmurs, his breath hot on the shell of my ear, and a shiver runs through me. "Tell me where you want to go. Anywhere."
"Someplace where nobody is going to look at me funny," I reply. I’ll stick out at a haute couture boutique, with snooty sales associates who’d rather look down their noses at me. "I don’t want a Pretty Woman moment. Making a scene isn’t my thing."
He pulls away, but his hand stays wrapped around my wrist, a firm, warm shackle I’m not going to lose anytime soon.
"Come," he says, "I know where to take you."
Luca leads me toward an innocuous looking boutique, a place called TulipToo. As we enter, a woman in a soft black dress, her hair tied into a perfect ponytail, a white ribbon wrapped around it, greets us, her face lighting up.
"Luca!" she cries out, and he leans in, kissing her on either cheek, and they embrace. I try not to look as surprised as I feel, because this is clearly someone he knows, and it’s clear they’re... close. My chest feels uncomfortably tight. "How’s Dani," She asks, "oh, how’s Ricky?" She turns to me and smiles. "Look at you, can it be?" Her eyes sparkle with mirth, but Luca holds up a hand, stopping her from talking more.
"We’re just here for clothes, Angelique, not conversation." His voice is light, but there’s a thread of steel running through it. He wants no further comments from this woman.
"Of course, darling, of course," she says, and clasps her hands together. "What’ll it be! Oh, you’d look lovely in a ripped jean, I know exactly what you need. Let’s leave this grump here," she says, taking me by the hands and drawing me deeper into her boutique. "Luca, darling, you’ll behave?"
"When am I not a paragon of manners," he asks from the storefront, and a low laugh escapes her. I glance back at him, and he’s not looking at me, instead, his eyes are steady on the doorway, a tension in how he holds himself.
Like he’s ready to spring into battle. He’s... guarding me. That has to be it. A flutter of nerves in my stomach has me turning back to Angelique.
"Oh, darling, you are too much, you always have been," she calls, pulling me between racks of clothes packed with jeans, all colors, and designs. "Wide-legged. I’m so glad they’re back again. Very comfortable, as long as you’re in the right shoe. How tall are you?" She eyes me up, before she starts pulling several pairs of jeans off of a rack near her. "I’ll start you a room. I’m lucky you came at a slow moment, Luca would have kicked everyone out, I’m sure."
She bustles off, and I stand, awkwardly in the middle of the space, surrounded by clothing.
"Luca?" I call out, and his voice comes from the other side of the rack.
"Don’t worry," he says, "I’ve got everything covered."
I’m not reassured.
An hour later, my head is spinning from all the clothes, and Luca’s sitting in the waiting room, on his phone, a magazine in his hand. I can’t imagine how much this is going to cost. It’s not lost on me that each piece of the clothing I’ve been asked to try on is conspicuously missing a price tag.
"Try the jeans and the blue sequin shirt," Angelique says, practically pushing me into the fitting room when I emerge. "I’m going to get Luca a drink."
I slip inside the fitting room, and pull the curtain closed. Looking at myself in the mirror, my hair is starting to fluff up with the effort of trying things on, and my cheeks are two pink patches of color. And my heart, it feels heavy and sick. I wish I could check the price of these wide-legged jeans, made out of a pale, comfortably thick denim. The sequin shirt, the cut of it perfect, shows a hint of my cleavage, but nothing too outrageous, and fits perfectly, the hem falling to the top of the jeans, and the sleeves ending in a cap sleeve, just the right length.
Nothing off the rack has ever fit me this well. There’s a knot in my throat. I have a sneaking suspicion that the jeans alone would pay my half of our rent. For the month.
"Are you decent?" Angelique’s voice floats over the curtain, and I step back from the mirror.
"Uh, yeah," I say, and she pushes it open.
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathes, "you look stunning."
I stare at myself in the mirror.
"I can’t," I say, and a look of understanding comes across her face. She taps a finger against her bottom lip.
"Here, my dear," she murmurs, and comes into the fitting room, pulling the curtain closed. She warms her hands by rubbing them together and then presses them against my cheeks. "Shhh, shhh, now, it is no easy thing to be the chosen of a Greco, but he is a good one. Oh, but you are crying?—"
