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“Anya,” Cameron said, looking away.
“Hm.” I put a hand on my hip. “Talking about my sleazy salespersonship, about my dreadful cooking skills…”
“The whole kit and caboodle.” She beamed. “So… outfit for the opera, is it?”
“Apparently. She didn’t tell me where we were going until she showed up at my place…”
“Cameron,” Anya said, sounding almost scandalized, looking at where Cameron was giving me a playful look. “Where did you get that mischievous streak?”
“Oh, who knows?” Cameron said, not taking her eyes off me. I felt like my feet wouldn’t touch the ground.
“You’re a bad influence, London,” Anya said, shaking her head again. “Well, let’s get you dressed up. You’re definitely an autumn… might be able to put you in a real red. Ever gotten tailoring before?”
“Are you just—” I scrunched up my face. “Are you just tailoring a dress for me right here and now?”
Anya smiled wider, the apples of her cheeks popping. “I see she didn’t tell you that part, either. Just some quick alterations so we’re not here all day, but otherwise, yes.”
Cameron was such a… such a fairytale. I hadn’t even dared to dream of this kind of thing since I was a little kid. There were so many parts of me straining against the idea, willing me to refuse, to say I couldn’t possibly accept it, but I’d be a flaming liar if I said I didn’t want it.
“Never had the pleasure before,” I said, relaxing. “I’m so out of the loop I don’t even know what it means to be an autumn, except that my birthday’s in spring.”
Again, Anya tutted, giving Cameron a look. “You tell her anything before you bring her in?”
Cameron gave her the sweetest, most innocent smile. “I’ve told her she looks good in red.”
I felt myself burn. Anya did not need to know about me in the red Venusian Sunset. And all the other things Cameron did with me in it.
Anya took me through the shop in a whirlwind of quick chatter, a lot of back-and-forth conversations between her and Cameron that I couldn’t begin to follow. I was starting to feel like an actual model, the two of them holding dresses up to me and lining up color swatches next to me, looking at me from every angle and casually talking about my curves. Anya measured me with swift, exacting precision, and they went through a set of dresses until they both looked at one in a rich, stunning crimson with a sweeping sweetheart neckline, more intricate detailing than I could keep track of at a subtly gathered hem, the skirt with just enough structure to create a dramatic silhouette, subtle lace accenting over the fabric in places creating a bustier effect. They exchanged an approving nod before showing me to the mirror, holding the dress up to my body.
“Well?” Anya said.
I swallowed. Maybe I was an autumn, whatever that meant. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Then I can get started, finally,” she said, sweeping off to the back, leaving us with no fanfare in the quiet of the shop, smelling like old wood mixing with the intoxicating aroma of Cameron’s perfume, subtle tonight but still maddening. In the quiet of the shop, she sidled closer to me, looking over a rack of dresses, occupying herself running her hand reverently over the fabric.
“She likes you,” she said. I arched an eyebrow.
“As much as she likes anybody?”
“Oh, please,” she laughed, glancing at me with eyes sparkling. “No need to coach it. She adores you.”
“Called me a bad influence.”
“You are.” She only smiled wider, though, inching closer, her side brushing mine. Her gaze flicked down to my lips and back up to meet mine, and time seemed to stop there like that, not a sound but my heart pounding, nothing but…
“Bad influence,” I laughed, slipping randomly out of my mouth. “If getting someone a tailored dress to go to the opera together is your idea of causing trouble, I can’t imagine what being good looks like.”
She licked her lips, her eyes drifting down to my mouth again before turning away. “You know exactly what being a good girl looks like for me. And exactly how I like to forget it.”
I swallowed. “I guess I see what you mean… what you meant, back in LIV.”
“Oh, yes?” She raised an eyebrow, smiling lightly at me.
“You said when it comes to being free, independent… you’re still a work in progress. Thought then there was no way that was true.” I looked away. “But I see it.”
“Calling me a work in progress doesn’t sound… entirely flattering,” she said.
I laughed, the sound coming from nowhere as I looked back at her. “It is to me. I think what it really means is that… is that you don’t stop making progress. And that’s very attractive.” I felt my face prickle with a blush, and I dropped my gaze to the floor. “More than that. It’s… breathtaking.”
