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She relaxes, turning back to the row of neatly folded and displayed undergarments. “Valid thought process. Sometimes I forget you’re intelligent.”
“That was almost a compliment.”
“It was a compliment.”
I laugh. “You’re not very good at compliments.”
She picks up something pink. “I am, actually, extremely good at compliments. I have a knack for paying attention to details, and the more detailed a positive observation, the more it means to someone. For example, your shirt today brings out the blue in your eyes and complements your hair well. An excellent choice.”
I glance down at the green shirt I’m wearing. It is the very one she put with this pair of pants and arranged in my closet alongside the rest of my outfits for this week—which include both my business attire and my after-work clothes. “Are you complimenting yourself?
Her lips quirk up into a smirk. “Absolutely. And I’ve done an amazing job.”
I bite my lip and cross one arm over my chest to grip my bicep. Tapping my fingers against the muscle, I watch Marcella continue her perusal.
No one should be this funny.
No one should always have a well-thought-out comeback at the ready like she does.
There has to be a limit to how clever someone is allowed to be.
“My underwear has never matched before…” She holds up a full, scandalous, set of pink lingerie, complete with both top and bottom pieces. “If I get in a car wreck, the paramedics are going to be so proud of me.”
It becomes mildly difficult to swallow, and my heart jumps as she tosses the entire set over her arm.
Casually coming in here was a less-than-fantastic idea, I think. Picturing Marcella in a full set of pink does unhelpful things to my brain. I don’t believe I have ever been invested enough in a woman to let my thoughts wander where they are right now.
Pink makes her seem so much more gentle than she is.
It’s devastating to my emotional health, but I can’t stop myself from wondering what would suit her the best…
My evil gaze drifts across mannequins and displays, taking in styles and shades. It’s a proper women’s undergarment store, not a risque one, but that doesn’t mean I should allow my head to picture Marcella modeling pin-up style in everything my attention grazes.
Unfortunately, the sewer that is my mind works religiously through creating the feature photos for scandalous calendars until its working on a spring two years away.
When Marcella takes herself to the back, I automatically trail after, stopping the second her destination becomes clear.
The dressing rooms.
“You’re welcome to go in with her,” an attendant, whose shirt is gaping to display product in use, informs me.
Expression sour, Marcella makes direct eye contact with the poor woman, snips, “Incorrect,” and slams the door shut.
“Oh.” The woman laughs. “Don’t tell me.” She lowers her voice. “You’re in trouble? Just so you know, underwear isn’t a good apology gift.”
I smile. “It’s not an apology gift. This is how she always is.”
The woman’s brows knit. “O-oh?”
“This is uncomfortable, and I’m dying,” Marcella abruptly calls past the door, causing the attendant to jump.
Shrugging in what I hope is a mildly sympathetic manner, I call back, “Which one?”
“Pink set. My disappointment is immeasurable. What will the paramedics think now?”
Not what I’m thinking right now. Which is great.
She swears. “I know, I know, baby.”
