Instead, I knock.
"Come in," she calls.
I open the door and stop.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop open, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her thighs and gray sweatpants that look like they've seen better days. Her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, and she's wearing glasses I didn't know she needed.
She looks like she's auditioning for a college student role, not like the woman who's supposed to convince my family she belongs at my side.
Somehow, she still looks appealing.
"Are you immune to clothes that actually touch your body?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
She looks up, and I catch the flash of annoyance in her eyes. "Hello to you too."
"That's what you're wearing?"
"I'm in my room doing work. What does it matter what I'm wearing?"
"It matters because I had an entire wardrobe delivered this morning. Expensive, tailored pieces that would actually fit you. And instead, you're dressed like?—"
"Like what?" She closes the laptop, swings her legs off the bed. "Like a normal person? Like someone who's comfortable?"
"Like you're trying to make a point."
"Maybe I am." She stands, crosses her arms. "The clothes you sent are ridiculous. I'm not wearing them."
"They're appropriate for the events you'll be attending with me."
"They're hooker clothes, Dante. Short, tight, barely there. I teach second-graders. I'm not dressing like that."
"Interesting," I say slowly, "that your underwear can be lace and see-through, but your outer clothes have to be modest. Care to explain that logic?"
Her face flushes. "That's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
"Not an answer, Miss Mancini."
She turns away, moves to the window. "I don't owe you explanations about my clothing choices."
But there's something in her voice—something defensive, almost raw—that catches my attention.
Interesting.
I step fully into the room, close the door behind me. "You do when those choices reflect on me. When you're representing me to my family and business associates."
"Then maybe you should've thought of that before you bought someone who doesn't fit your aesthetic."
"I bought someone who agreed to follow my instructions. That includes wardrobe."
"Oh, come on. You bought someone desperate enough to agree to anything to save her mother." She turns back, and there's fire in her eyes now. "Don't mistake compliance for enthusiasm."
Fair point.
I move closer, and she doesn't back away. Doesn't flinch. Just holds her ground with a stubborn tilt to her chin and it is turning me on, big time.
