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Stepping out from behind the screen, I find Fitzy waiting a few paces away and Hawthorn sitting on the couch, a beer in hand, his eyes on me.
“What do you think?” Fitzy asks, pulling my attention back to him.
“It’s nice,” I say politely.
“Nice,” Fitzy says, tipping his head to the side as he rolls the word across his tongue. “So, it’s a, no?”
“No. I don’t know. What do you think?” I ask him.
Exhaling a visible breath, his eyes go sad, and he crosses the room and wraps his arms around me in an unexpected hug. Freezing, I go stiff, but he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he makes a pained sound and squeezes me tighter. His build is much leaner than Hawthorn’s, but still solid and firm. When he eventually pulls back, he doesn’t release me completely, letting his fingers run along the end of my braid. “Oh, sweet girl,” he coos.
“I’m not sweet,” I tell him quietly. “That’s my sister.”
“Oh no, honey, that’s you too. You’re even more broken than she is, aren’t you?”
“I’m not broken, I’m just evil,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Oh, Penelope,” he sighs. “The bruises are just below the surface for you, aren’t they?” he murmurs quietly.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear rolls across my mouth and I taste salt on my lips. Cupping my cheeks gently, Fitzy wipes the tears away and looks at me like he sees something in me that’s not bad and twisted.
Clearing his throat, he smiles and releases my face. “That dress is a no. Unless it wows you and makes you feel beautiful, it’s not for you.”
Letting him guide me back behind the screen, I take the dress off and replace it with the next outfit he hands me. An hour later, I’ve discovered that I like wide-leg tailored pants, co-ords, skirts, and the color blue, and I have a real smile on my face for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Back home, I have closets full of clothes, but I’ve always endured shopping rather than enjoyed it. But trying on all these outfits with Fitzy has been fun. His enthusiasm for clothes is overwhelming, and with his sweet guiding help, I think I’m starting to figure out what I like.
A part of me expected Hawthorn to leave, or to at least turn on the TV or his laptop, but instead he sat on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table and watched the fashion show I put on for him. At the beginning, I looked to him for his opinion, but he refused to comment either way until I’d told him how I felt about the outfit, like he didn’t want to temper my response with his opinion.
“Thank you,” I tell Fitzy as he collapses the privacy screen.
“Pah, this is what I live for,” he says, waving my thanks away. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow with some more choices for you to look at now that we’re getting a firmer fix on your style and I have your proper measurements, then going forward, I’ll just send things out to you as I find them.”
“I’m not sure where I’m going to be staying,” I admit sheepishly. “At the moment, I’m at the Haywood Hotel. Do you bill me, or should I give you my credit card details? How does this work?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s already sorted,” Fitzy says, leaning in to press a kiss against my cheek. “And I have your cell number, so I’ll just text you and you can let me know where you want me to bring the next batch of things for you to try.”
“How is it sorted? Are you going to send the bill to the hotel?” I ask, concerned. The clothes I just picked out equate to thousands of dollars. I know he knows I can afford it, but I still need to know how to pay him.
“He’s putting it on my account,” Hawthorn says.
“What, why?” I gasp, spinning to face him.
“Because I told him to.”
“Right, my darlings,” Fitzy interrupts, “I’ll leave you to it. Penelope, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks for coming,” Hawthorn says, embracing Fitzy in a man hug before the older man leaves, pulling the rail of clothes behind him.
I wait until Fitzy closes the door to the deck behind him before I turn to Hawthorn. “What just happened? Why would my clothes go on your account? I have access to my trust fund; I can buy my own things.”
“Come here, Princess,” he calls, gesturing for me to go to him.
“No,” I snap, crossing my arms across my chest and holding my ground. “You can’t just buy my clothes.”
“Why not?” he asks calmly, moving toward me and ignoring my obvious annoyance.
“Because you can’t, people don’t just buy other people a whole new wardrobe,” I say, uncrossing, then re-crossing my arms, fidgeting beneath his unwavering gaze.
