I shut the door and turn back to Lia. “If I’m going to wiggle you in and out of these things, then we’re going to put you in dresses that are actually your style. None of this poofy, embellished bullshit. I’m no expert, but these are atrocious.” That makes her smile, but it’s not the full kind of smile I’m used to. It’s a blip. A blip will have to do.
“They’re not great,” she says, walking up to them. She picks up one of the silky ones and says, “This is the same fabric as the robe I’m wearing. People would be able to see every lump and bump on my body.”
“Well, for one, you don’t have lumps and bumps besides the two on your chest, and secondly, I’m not sure those are the kind of dresses you wear undergarments with.”
She cringes. “I need undergarments. I’m not one to show nipple to a crowd of people.”
“Only a select few?” I joke around.
“Obviously,” she says before leaning against the wall of the dressing room.
“What are you doing?” we hear The Beave ask the attendant. “Why are you taking in more dresses? We haven’t even seen her try on the first ones.”
Lia’s eyes plead with me, so I excuse myself from the dressing room and walk up to The Beave, who’s sitting in a chair with an untouched glass of champagne in her hand.
“Mrs. Beaver, could I possibly have a word with you?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Well, of course,” she says as she stands, and together, we walk off to the side, out of earshot. If anything, this woman likes to uphold appearances. She doesn’t want anyone to hear a conversation they shouldn’t. “What on earth is happening in that dressing room?”
“The dresses that were chosen are beautiful, but they’re not quite Lia’s style.” I lower my voice some more and say, “She’s very upset right now, and I don’t want to cause a scene, so I thought we could try on some dresses that suit her more.”
“Upset? For what reason? This should be fun.”
“I agree. That’s why we shouldn’t dictate what she wears and be happy for what she thinks looks beautiful on her.”
The Beave’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying that I’m trying to be too controlling?”
Whatever gave you that idea?
Insert giant eye roll.
“Not at all,” I reply with a smile. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but I say let’s give Lia a moment to pick, and then if she can’t find anything she likes, we offer suggestions. Does that work?”
“I suppose.”
“Great.” I hold my arm out to her, and she slips her hand against my forearm so I can escort her back to her seat. “I apologize for being late, by the way. I had a meeting that held me up.”
“You are a busy man. How is the lawsuit?”
“Still confidential but should be brushed away soon. Huxley has it all under control.”
“I would assume he does.”
I help her take a seat and then ask, “Do you need me to get you anything, or are you good right now?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Okay, then I’m going to go help Lia. We’ll be right out.”
I go back to the dressing room, knock, and then enter, only to find Lia standing in the middle of the room, wearing an off-the-shoulder cream lace dress that accentuates her waist and gently flows to the ground.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes slowly work their way up her torso, to her neckline, and then to her face and . . . something hits me. Something so strong, so foreign that I don’t know how to categorize it. Like this overwhelming sense of . . . breathlessness. For a moment, my heart actually stopped beating, and the world stopped spinning, and everything was on pause as she came into view.
“What do you think?” she asks as the attendant exits the dressing room, leaving me alone with Lia.
What feels like a million butterflies take flight in my stomach as I attempt to put words to what’s going on in my head.
“Is it bad?” she asks as she turns toward the mirror to look at herself, revealing a low cut, showing off her slender back. My eyes drag down to where the fabric hits just above the curve of her ass. “I think it’s kind of whimsical, but do you think it’s too much? It was the one that called out to me the most.” She turns back around again, and her stunning eyes plead with me to say something. “You hate it.”
I shake my head.
Holy fuck do I NOT hate it.
There’s nothing to hate about it.
It’s . . . Jesus Christ . . . she’s . . . she’s fucking gorgeous.
Swallowing hard, I say, “No, I don’t hate it. You look . . . fuck, you look stunning, Ophelia.” My words sound ragged, untamed, and unpolished, like something is stuck in my throat, and I can’t quite get it out.
The prettiest fucking smile I’ve ever seen crosses her lips as she says, “Really?”
I grip the back of my neck as I give her another once-over. “Yeah, you look—” I swallow hard. Just . . . fuck. She looks so good, so fucking gorgeous that my mouth keeps watering, my heart is beating a mile a minute, and I want to just . . . reach out and touch her. “Wow,” I answer. “Just . . . really fucking beautiful.”
“You’re blushing,” she says.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Yeah, I just, uh, wasn’t expecting to walk in here and see you in a dress.”
Or to lose my breath.
Or to feel this urge to . . . fuck me, to kiss her.
That’s what it is. That’s what this heavy, foggy feeling is in my chest.
The butterflies.
The unintelligible thoughts in my head.
The desire pulsing up my legs.
The thought of kissing her consumes me, and I’ve never had that thought before, not since the first night I met her. It’s like those ten years have rushed back in a fury, like a snapshot of time unfolding in a blink of an eye, taking me all the way back to the moment I ran into her in the hallway. Where I first saw those perfectly placed freckles of hers and the confusion in her expression.
Where her eyes fixated on me for the first time through her purple-rimmed glasses.
When the uneasy yet confident side of her personality shone bright.
I thought she was so fucking beautiful.
So funny.
So charming.
So real.
And then I found out how smart she was, how she had all the same likes and interests as I did. Throughout that night as we played Scrabble, I kept thinking I was going to ask her out when all was said and done, but then . . . she asked to be friends. She needed to find a friend. Instead of acting on my initial reaction, I pushed it away, only for it to perform a full-frontal attack on me when I was least expecting it.
Right now.
In this fucking moment.
She turns back toward the mirror, and I catch her gaze finding mine in the reflection. “Should I show her?” she asks, her voice laced with insecurity. “I don’t want her to hate it.”
“I don’t care what she says. We’re getting that dress,” I say, my voice coming out more breathless than I want it to.
“But it’s the first one. Isn’t that a bad sign? Shouldn’t I try on more?”
I shake my head. “No, sometimes, you just know.” I wet my lips. “And this dress, Lia, this one is for you.”