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“Put your own clothes back on. I don’t like what they have here. It’s all too extravagant. We’re going somewhere else.”
Her lip juts. “You’re being difficult.”
“Change. Now.”
Her arms cross. “Or else what? You’ll make me?”
“I’ll leave you here.”
“You’re bluffing. You’re too sweet to abandon me, all by myself, where I’ll be forced to rely upon the kindness of the first man I coerce into giving me a ride home.”
She’s acting like she doesn’t have a phone and a hundred people who would drop everything to pick her up. I mumble, “Must you be so infuriating?”
“Yes. Now, change your tone and express your feelings if you expect me to listen.”
My brow knots. Express my… What is she talking about?
Her arms drop as she huffs. “Goodness, Rowan. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I sincerely have no idea what you expect from me. I dislike the options here. I would take you somewhere else.”
“Clearly we have different opinions, but if you insist, zip me up and I’ll wear this out to the next place.”
I scan the twelve inches of cloth “covering” her then return my attention to her eyes. “Absolutely not. How would the cashier even remove the security tag while you’re wearing it?”
“I’ll jump up on the counter and do yoga.”
“Briar.” My patience wears ever so thin. Perhaps thinner than the outfit she’s still wearing. Releasing a pent-up breath, I mutter, “Please. Change.”
Her eyes narrow, but she twists on her heel toward the dressing room. “Fine. But you better bring me somewhere else just as nice.”
As the stall door closes, I sag back into my seat, unlock my phone, and amend:
Briar Rosanera always usually gets her way.
♠
“What is this?” Briar demands as I park.
“Target.” I wave a hand. “As indicated by the giant target.” Popping open my door, I step out of my car and stretch. The unrelenting sun beats down on my back even as a forgiving breeze caresses my skin.
Arms folded, Briar remains seated inside, yammering on about how she refuses to wear clothes from a grocery store.
Bending, I peer at her through my window and point at my ear.
With a huff, she opens her door, steps out, and drones, “I said—”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of repeating herself before I state, “It’s this or Goodwill, princess.”
Her back goes straight, eyes wide. “You did not just say that to me. Do you even know how corrupt Goodwill is as an organization?”
I arch a brow. “We’ll fit right in.”
Her mouth opens, closes. Those arms of hers fold again, managing to put her breasts on display. Not that it’s incredibly hard. The dress she’s wearing today covers her Rosanera tattoo, and not much else. Per usual, it’s a form-fitting puddle of gauze.
The sooner I find a thick oversize t-shirt with a cheesy saying on it, the better. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Turning her face from me, she sticks her little nose in the air. “I don’t want to.”
