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She angles her head, skimming her fingers through her short hair. “Do you understand now, pet? When you’re attracted to someone, it doesn’t matter what they’re wearing.”
My throat closes as my stomach turns over. “That…” I scan her, from head to toe. “No. That can’t be right.”
Her eyes roll. “Darling, this is flesh colored. Perhaps one of the least flattering shades a person can wear is the shade of their own skin, and yet I watched your heart hit your Adam’s apple when I left the changing room. It’s fine. I get it. You’re not used to being around women. Just don’t start ogling Lace, or I’ll remove your eyes and put them in my own little jar.”
“I’m not like that,” I drop my voice and lean as close as I dare. “I don’t sexualize women. Lace came to breakfast this morning in her underwear, and I thought nothing of it.” Chip was the one who looked like he wanted to die, and when he suggested his wife put some clothes on, she shot him a glare that made him cry into his oatmeal. “I continued reviewing my schedule. I didn’t care, Briar, but she’s also not in my bedroom and flirting with me every chance she gets.”
Briar whispers, “You have a point, but I haven’t been flirting with you since I put this on, and you’re still the color of an overripe tomato.”
Raking my fingers through my hair, I grip the strands. “What are you implying?”
She smiles, coy, and my heart somersaults. “Remember how you said you didn’t want anyone thinking I was your type, pet? What if I am?”
Curses spear through my skull like blades of ice.
Uncertainty infiltrates her confidence, and she steps back, smoothing the skirt of her dress. “Look more devastated, why don’t you? I’m sure my insurmountable hubris will find some way to recover.”
She’s…definitely not my type. That’s insane. My attraction to her can’t be uniquely hers. It’s just… Something about her is…
Adorable.
In a deadly way.
Like a puffer fish wielding a knife in its little O-shaped mouth.
She’s a monster.
And I’m used to monsters.
But she isn’t a monster made of pain.
She’s a monster in frills and tights, a monster in bare feet, and a monster in leather. She’s a monster fourteen years younger than me. Which maybe makes me the monster. I know very few people would survive my childhood and come out remotely correct—but I never suspected I’d find myself lusting after the human equivalent of a serrated knife with a pink handle.
And I— I’m not, right? Lusting, I mean.
This has to be just another one of her mind games.
Even though right now—in this bustling store—she seems anything but in control. For spare moments beneath this bright fluorescent lighting, she looks uncertain, anything but monstrous. Almost…hurt.
“You know,” she says, “I’m attracted to you, too. It’s not a bad thing, especially given the situation.” Clearing her throat, she asks, “Do you want me to get this dress?”
I want her to get the dress. I want to take her to the countryside and set her loose in a field of flowers. I want to watch sun caress the reams of fabric as she spins.
I want several business days to unpack every last one of my current thoughts.
Forcing myself to close my shaking hand, I put distance between us and fight to get a tight breath in my lungs. Voice rough as sandpaper, I say, “Get whatever you can stand. I’ll be in the car.”
Without another word, I march through the buzz of shoppers beneath the too-bright lights, and away from what I think might be my first…crush.
♠
I don’t know what’s come over me. Every other thought in my head circles Briar. I’m lost in ideas of her. Stranded without hope for rescue.
After several days of experiencing her presence woven into the mundane moments of my life, I’m not closer to understanding how she puts spells on everyone she comes across. My notes about her have devolved so pitifully into nonsense.
She’s perfect, and I hate it. I have no idea how to reconcile my obvious attraction with my obvious frustration.
I want to crush her—tight and close and harder than I should because she’s too perfect. Because her perfection pisses me off.
