Trust (Wrong 3)

“It seems a little stuffy.”

“The wedding will be a little stuffy too,” he says, removing his sunglasses and sliding them over his shirt collar. “Remember we’re practicing,” he adds and then grabs my hand and walks me inside.

Why the heck is he holding my hand? He doesn’t let go of it though, instead he keeps walking with my hand in his like we’re a couple. I start to panic before I remember we’re practicing. Deep breath, go with the flow, Chloe. By the time we reach the women’s dress department I’m enjoying the hand-holding. But then I start to wonder if my hand is sweating and I freak out again. At that point we’re intercepted by a saleswoman offering her assistance and Boyd drops my hand.

And then drapes his arm over my shoulder.

I honestly don’t even hear the exchange between them because all I can focus on is the feel of Boyd’s arm wrapped around me. And the way his chest feels where our bodies connect. It feels hard. Really freaking solid. And he smells good. I don’t have any other coherent thoughts beyond that. And I think I missed a bunch while I was zoning out about Boyd’s chest because the next thing I know I’m inside of a fitting room filled with dresses.

Except one isn’t a dress. It’s a sparkly romper. Short with a plunging neckline. Huh. I slip into it out of sheer curiosity and almost laugh at my reflection. No way. The shorts on this thing are shorter than the pajama bottoms I sleep in. I think these are sequin-covered pajamas.

I open the fitting room door and step out, expecting Boyd to laugh with me over the ridiculousness of this outfit, but when he glances up from his phone he stills and then his eyes seem to move in slow motion from my head to my toes. And he doesn’t appear to find this outfit as amusing as I do. “Take that off.”

“I didn’t pick it out!” I protest, still thinking it’s kinda funny.

“You’re not wearing that in public.”

Okay, wow. No, I wasn’t going to wear this past the dressing room, but I didn’t think it looked that bad on me; he didn’t have to be a jerk about it. As I turn away he mutters, “Jesus, that barely covers your ass,” and then he’s calling out for Angie, the saleswoman, as I shut the fitting room door and examine myself in the mirror. It’s not anything I would wear, but it’s kinda hot.

I try on several more, discarding them for one reason or another; a couple are placed on the maybe pile, until I slip into the one I’m wearing now. It’s black lace over a nude lining. Long sleeves and the neckline rests on my collarbone, but the hemline ends a few inches above my knees. It’s my kind of sexy, I think. It’s more classy than risqué. The nude lining covers everything, of course, but makes the dress pop more than a black lining would have. I knot my hair on top of my head to get a visual of the final look and stand on my tiptoes to check out what it would look like with heels. I’m in love with this dress.

“Let’s see it,” Boyd calls from outside the dressing room.

“How do you know I like this one enough to come out?”

“Because you’ve been in the same dress for five minutes and you’re wearing pretend heels,” he answers drily.

Wait. I fling open the door. “Are you watching me under the fitting room door? That’s kind of pervy.”

He smiles slowly. “All I can see are your feet to mid calf.”

“Maybe you have a foot fetish.”

He glances down at my bare feet and then stands, moving closer until he’s inches away. I look up at him and my breath catches. Holy shit, is he going to kiss me? I stop breathing as he places his hands on my shoulders and then he turns me, and I breathe again as his fingers move to the zipper. Right, I forgot I was only half zipped. I couldn’t reach far enough to zip it to the top. I try not to fidget as he zips me, but I wish he would zip a little faster.

“Perfect,” he murmurs once the zipper reaches the top.

“The dress is perfect?” I question, turning around again and holding my arms out from my body, examining the sleeves.

He meets my eyes and a second passes before he confirms. “Yes, the dress is perfect.”

I change back into my own clothes while Boyd pays for the dress, Angie retrieving it from the fitting room and zipping it into a dress bag with a Barney’s New York logo on the outside. On our way to shoes we pass the women’s lingerie department. Or at least I pass women’s lingerie. Boyd stops. It takes me a few steps for me to notice and when I turn around he angles his head towards the department, his face serious.

“No,” I respond as I turn back around and keep walking. I can hear him laughing as he catches up with me.

“Are you sure? I’m buying.”

“Firm no, Boyd. I have underwear, thank you. The shopping trip is weird enough.”

“Why is it weird?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t know, it feels weird that you’re buying me things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, picking up a heel he can’t possibly expect me to wear. “I have plenty of money. I didn’t even earn it. Hell, my parents didn’t even earn it.”

I stop with a shoe in my hand and stare at him wide-eyed. “Did you steal it?”

“What? No.” He laughs, looking genuinely amused. “I… are you serious?”

Um, am I? “Well, no, you probably wouldn’t have passed the FBI background check if you came from a family of gypsies.” Oh, wait, I remember now. Sophie came into some kind of an inheritance when Boyd found her last year. She’s his half-sister, a child his father had from an affair that no one knew about. She didn’t even know the deceased senator was her dad or that she had a sibling until Boyd found her. “You have an inheritance?”

He nods.

“So why do you work?”

“Why wouldn’t I work?” He looks genuinely confused. “My grandpa would have kicked my ass if I hadn’t taken school seriously and selected my own career path. Besides, I like what I do.”

“What was the family career path? Your dad was a politician, so I assume he wasn’t in the family business.”

“Candy.”