“I’m not being mean. I’m waiting for you to stop lying.”
Her mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“You think you don’t belong next to them? That’s a lie.”
She sputters. “It’s called being realistic.”
“No,” I say flatly. “It’s called being wrong.”
Her head whips toward me, indignant. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still sulking.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but she turns back to the window instead, pretending she’s not affected. She hums louder to cover it, off-key enough that I should tease her for it, but I don’t.
Because I notice things.
Like the way she’s piled her hair up into a claw clip, messy and uneven, because she hasn’t had time to braid it the way she likes. Or that she’s wearing the little star earrings she only wears when she thinks she needs extra luck. Or that she didn’t argue with me about her matcha and macarons, just enjoyed the treat.
None of it makes sense for someone who swears she doesn’t care or doesn’t need someone to make her feel special. And I’ll be fucked if anyone else is going to do that, when she’s the most special person in my life.
By the time I pull into the boutique lot, she’s stopped muttering under her breath about how this is the worst idea in history, which only proves my point—she needed to get out of her head.
***
The boutique hits me in the face the second we walk in. Overpriced perfume, soft jazz that makes my teeth itch, racks of silk and sequins that cost more than my mortgage.
“This is insane,” Lulu mutters, hugging herself. “I would’ve picked somewhere else.”
“Lesson Eight,” I say, scanning racks immediately. “Never underestimate a guy who knows how to pick out lingerie.”
Her head jerks toward me, eyes wide. “You arenotpicking out my lingerie.”
“Not today.”
Color floods her cheeks, and she smacks my arm. “You’re bossy, you know that?”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, steering her toward a display. “Pick something shiny and we’ll get out of here.”
She swats my arm. “You can’t justpick something shiny.That’s not how fashion works.”
“Looks the same to me.” I pluck a glittery dress off the rack and hold it against her. “This one screamsVegas showgirl.”
Her eyes narrow. “Logan.”
“What?” I gesture to it. “You’d look hot.”
She takes it from me and places it back onto the hanger. “If you make me try on something fugly, I swear to God—”
The sales assistant materializes, all wide eyes and too-bright smile. She clocks me instantly, stammers something about the Storm, and Lulu turns quickly, busying herself rifling through dresses.
I wink at the girl and wave her off. “Just browsing. My girlfriend’s picky.”
Lulu turns, beet red and hissing. “You can’t say that out loud!”
“Why not? It’s true.” I hand her another hanger without really looking. “Here. Sequins. Shiny. Sexy. Done.”
She sighs but takes it from me, muttering something about murder before disappearing into the dressing room.
