When I look at the price tag, I swallow hard against my dry throat and almost choke. Over four thousand dollars for a piece of fabric I’ll most likely never wear again. Sweat forms on my forehead, and I begin debating the pros and cons of spending more than one of my entire paychecks on this dress. I’ve always been a girl of common sense, rational and levelheaded, but today I throw that out the window. I smile and nod at Deb. She hangs the dress over her arm and disappears with my credit card.
After I put myself back together, fixing hair that’s out of place and slipping on my shoes, Deb meets me outside the fitting room with a garment bag, my card, and receipt. Then I step outside, feeling pleased as I blend into the masses of people on the streets, everyone bustling about to get somewhere. I love the energy New York has, and like Holt said, it’s very much like Chicago, only better.
Arriving back at our room, I find Holt sitting at the small oval table, his cell phone pressed to his ear. A smile pulls at his lips when he turns around. He’s talking, but his eyes follow me as I walk back to the attached bedroom to hang up my dress in the closet.
Not wanting to disturb him, I kick off my shoes and lie down on the bed to rest for a few minutes. Minutes later, I hear him come into the room, but I keep my eyes closed. “Shopping is exhausting,” I mumble and let out a small laugh.
“Do not let my mother hear you say that,” he says, laughing in return.
“Speaking of your mother, how was lunch?” I push myself up and sit cross-legged on the bed.
He frowns. “She had to cancel, but we’re having dinner with her tonight.”
“Who’s we?” My eyebrows shoot up.
“You and me, Saige. It’s just dinner, nothing serious, so don’t read into it.” His tone tells me he’s annoyed.
“I wasn’t,” I lie. I mean, shit, sleeping with your boss on the first night . . . that’s fast. Meeting his parents a couple of weeks later . . . that’s warp speed. I try to picture meeting her, but I instantly begin to get anxious and try to think of an excuse as to why I can’t go.
Pushing off the bed, I blurt out, “I mean, I’m pretty tired; maybe you should just go. Plus, she hasn’t seen you in ages. She’s not going to want to spend her time worrying about including me in conversation.”
“Saige.” He walks over to me, placing his hands on my upper arms. “She wants to meet you.”
“I don’t have anything to wear. I only packed casual clothes.” I play nervously with the small diamond that dangles from a chain around my neck.
He rubs his thumbs softly on my skin. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re eating at her house. Nothing fancy required.” He’s making it difficult for me to get out of this, I think to myself.
“I have a headache. I had a really brutal day shopping.” I nod toward the closet and close my eyes to show my exhaustion. When he doesn’t respond, I finally crack an eye, catching him watching me. He sees right through my bullshit.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Barney’s can be so tiring. Personal shoppers running around while you wait for them to return is now classified as a high-intensity cardio workout.” He smirks at me. He can be such an ass, but I can’t help but chuckle. Clearly, he’s a seasoned Barney’s shopper.
“Holt—” I’m about to whip out another lame excuse when he interrupts me.
Exasperated, he finally snaps. “Saige. Stop. What you’re wearing is fine. You look beautiful. I promise, my mother is much more casual than what you’re thinking. She lives in Brooklyn in a beautiful brownstone. She’s married to a normal guy, and they have a dog. She’s the least pretentious person you’ll ever meet, and if you decided to show up in pajamas, she wouldn’t bat an eye. In fact, she’d probably run upstairs and change into hers.”
From everything he just told me, I think I already love her. “What kind of dog?” I ask, as if this will be the deal breaker.
His eyes soften and I can hear his tone relax. “A basset hound. He’s a real pain in the ass, but he’s the cutest damn dog—”
“Fine. I’ll go.” I toss my head back in defeat.
“It was the dog, wasn’t it?” he jokes.
“Yeah. A cute dog will always get me.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him.
“Noted.” He laughs.
Less than an hour later, Holt’s driver weaves through the Manhattan streets with ease, merging onto the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s every bit as beautiful as the images you see online and on television. My face is pressed to the glass as Manhattan disappears behind us, and I feel Holt lacing his fingers through mine.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says, giving my hand a small squeeze.
I narrow my eyes at him briefly before smiling. He knows there’s no talking me out of being nervous. But I’m instantly fascinated with Brooklyn. The buildings, the shops, the more low-key way of life. It feels like another world, and it’s just over a bridge from Manhattan.
“Here we are,” Holt says, leaning down to look out the window.
We pull up in front of the most gorgeous brownstone I’ve ever seen. The building is tan brick, with a huge staircase leading up to the large door. There is a small yard encased behind a brick and iron fence just off the stairs to the left, and this brownstone has a single car garage off to the right. It’s the only one on the street with a garage. Two large carriage lights sit atop the end of the brick stairs, welcoming us.