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“I could have, but where would be the fun in that? I promise you’re not too rich to open your own door.”
Muttering beneath her breath, she slides gracefully from the car and then sashays across the lot, like she’s walking a runway, not heading to find an outfit so she doesn’t look like a hooker.
“Princess, stop,” I snap, not moving or uncrossing my arms.
I’m pleasantly surprised, and almost a little too happy, when she immediately reacts to my tone and stops walking, spinning around to face me. Not allowing myself to smile or praise her for reacting the way I told her to, when I explained what I expected from her earlier, I tip my chin in the direction of her still-open car door.
Her brow furrows, then she looks from me, to the door, and back again, before she rolls her eyes, stomps back to me, and slams the door shut, muttering beneath her breath.
Laughing quietly, I lock my car and stroll after her, enjoying the way her long, lean legs move as she walks and how the too-tight dress she’s wearing emphasizes her almost non-existent curves. At first glance, she and Izzy are completely identical, but as I study Penelope for the first time, it’s obvious that there are differences between the two girls. Both of them are slim, but where Izzy seems healthy, Penelope looks dainty. I’ve never seen Princess in anything other than skirts and dresses, and I wonder if that’s deliberate, because I have a feeling that in jeans, Penelope would look like a waif.
The longer I stare, the more fragile she looks, and a wave of protectiveness rolls through me. I fight the confusing urge to sweep her off her feet and take her somewhere to feed her. But Penelope isn’t my problem. We’re not friends. She wants something from me, and the only reason we’re together right now is because I need to know what it is.
Forcing myself to stop staring at her ass, I speed up my stride until I’m walking beside her as we reach the automatic doors that lead into the mall. Considering it’s not quite six in the morning, there are plenty of people wandering between the shops and restaurants. “Food or clothes first?” I ask.
“If I actually do look like a…” She lowers her voice. “Prostitute, then I think I need to find clothes, although I’ve never heard of most of these stores. Do you think there’s a Gucci or a Prada here?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “I very much doubt there’s a Prada store in a twenty-four-hour mall.”
“Then how can I get clothes here?” she asks innocently.
“Why don’t you try something a little different?” I suggest. “Your sister wears casual stuff, jeans and shorts.”
“Mom would kill me,” she gasps, shaking her head as a panicked expression flashes across her face.
I recognize the look, it’s the same one that Izzy had when Gulliver sprung the engagement on her outside of school. It’s a mixture of terror and panic, and that protective urge I felt toward her earlier bubbles closer to the surface once more.
“What the fuck does it have to do with your mom? You left, remember? Because your parents are fucking psychos and they wanted you to drug and rape your sister’s fiancé.” She flinches at my cutting words, but I’m not going to sugarcoat how fucking crazy they are. “So, who cares if your mom would lose her shit about you buying a pair of jeans? Hell, get a pair just because she’d hate them.”
Instead of building her up, my words seem to have the opposite effect, and she curls into herself a little, wrapping her right arm across her chest and holding on to her left arm at the elbow so tightly that her fingers have gone white.
When she lifts her head and looks at me, all of her usual snotty confidence is gone, and she looks young, fragile, and terrified. I don’t know why I do it, but I move on instinct, drawn to her vulnerability. Reaching for her, I pull her to me and wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly against my chest.
I’m not surprised when she stiffens in my hold and doesn’t return my hug, but instead of loosening my grip, I just hold her tighter, silently offering her the comfort I’m still not entirely sure she deserves. After spending just this short amount of time with her, it’s clear that Penelope is just as fucked-up as Izzy is. The main difference between the girls is that when she was backed into a corner by her parents, Izzy came out swinging; she’s a fighter, but I don’t think Penelope has any clue how to fight for herself. Just like she freely admitted, Princess isn’t innocent in the way Izzy suffered, but I’m starting to question if Izzy was right in saying that her sister might be a victim of her parents too. Either that, or she’s just an incredibly good actress.
Reluctantly releasing her, I step back and clear my throat. Lifting her chin, she inhales deeply, and when her timid eyes find mine again, they’re full of confusion. I know she wants to know why I just offered her comfort, but the truth is, I don’t know why I did it, it just felt like the right thing to do.
So instead, I curl my hand around her wrist and drag her toward a Calvin Klein store. “Let’s go and buy you something your mom would fucking hate.”
“What size do you wear?” I ask, towing her through the store until we’re standing in front of a rack of skinny jeans.
“A two.”
“Jesus,” I murmur, grabbing clothes that look small enough to fit a child from the racks.
“Hawthorn,” she whispers anxiously, but I ignore her, reaching for her wrist again and leading her toward the changing room. “Try these on,” I say, thrusting the pile of clothes into her arms and shooing her into the cubicle.
“I can’t wear these,” she says, her eyes wide and a little scandalized as she lifts the tiny pair of black shorts I’d chosen for her into the air.
“Izzy has a pair smaller than that, and she looks hot as fuck in them. I’ve never seen you wear anything but tight dresses that look like they came out of your crazy mom’s closet.”
“I’m not my sister,” she says, her voice breaking a little, even as fire flares to life in her eyes.
“Trust me, Princess, I’m well aware you’re not Izzy. But you are fucking identical, and she looks good in shorts. So, stop being so fucking difficult and just go and try them,” I snap, pushing her further into the changing room and drawing the curtain.
The moment I hear the telltale rustling of fabric, I exhale and turn away, refusing to accept that I wouldn’t hate catching a glimpse of her while she undresses. “How’s it going?” I ask after a few minutes.
“I look weird,” she whines.
