The F-Word
We’re not.
Well, we are. Sort of. Where we go is to Evening Wear, and after a swift look through the racks, Casey shakes her head and we hunt down Cocktail Wear. Another rack check and we have to ferret out Separates. Not Sportswear Separates. Not Business Separates. Separates, as in long skirts and short ones, velvet pants and silk ones, tops that look like they’re made out of gauze and others with enough beads to throw off your vision.
Nothing is right, Casey decides,
“I wanted to get Saturday night out of the way,” she says, “but there are other shops in the mall for that, so let’s just see if we can get some of the other things we need while we’re still here. Something to wear Friday, for instance.”
This turns out to mean that we’re going to Sportswear and then narrow our search even further, from Sportswear to Designer. After some exploration, she determines which designer does clothes that will work best for Bailey. She accomplishes this even though, at first, it becomes a cross-examination.
“Patterns?” she asks. “Or solids?”
Bailey shrugs. “I’m not sure.”
“Low slung pants or high waist?”
Another shrug.
“Favorite colors?”
“I don’t have favorite colors.”
I am sure she would show more enthusiasm in a dental chair.
“Black and anything that looks like black,” I say. Both women look at me. I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”
And I am sorry. I am in a bad mood. I’ve no idea why—or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because I can see that my PA’s heart isn’t really in this. Is she seriously upset about the bonus thing? Should I have let her go shopping alone? Am I pushing her too hard? Is she regretting that she agreed to let me go with her this weekend?
Or is she sorry about that kiss last night?
Because I am not sorry. Okay. I am. But what I’m sorry about is that I didn’t follow through, take it further because, hell, I wanted to, I still want to, and why isn’t she feeling what I feel…
“…do you think?”
I am leaning against a pillar, arms folded over my chest, staring into space.
“Matt? What do you think?”
I blink and realize that Casey is looking at me.
“Sorry. What do I think about what?”
“About this outfit?” she says, and points to the right, so I turn in that direction and I see Bailey, standing outside the fitting room.
Bailey, in a white T with long sleeves and a V-neck. Bailey, in white pants that skim what are obviously long, long, incredible legs. Bailey, with her hair loose and hanging in soft waves. down her back…
“For tomorrow,” Casey says into the silence. “The drive up to Schenectady. Add this blazer—” She holds out a jacket the color of a ripe apricot—“and a pair of white mules, and it’s a perfect look.”
“Perfect,” I say, and to hell with why a woman would want mules on her feet. All I can see is my beautiful PA, her chin high, her cheeks the same shade as the jacket, and something inside me twists. “More than perfect.”
“Great,” my sister says.
And Bailey—
Bailey lets out a long breath.
And is that…?
It is.