"Hey, Olivia. Please, call me Sailor," she says with that grin I'm already beginning to recognize. "Might as well get used to it, right? Wouldn’t want you to slip."
Right. Of course. If we're going to pull this off, we need to actually practice being a couple, fake name and all.
"Okay." I extend my hand for a formal introduction. "Then call me Liv. That’s what my family calls me."
Her handshake is firm, warm, and lasts just a beat longer than necessary. I study her face, trying to read her. "I have to apologize again for that drunk message. I'm not usually so..."
"Eloquent?" she suggests, and I can't help but laugh.
"That's one way to put it."
"Don't worry about it," she says. "I'm just super excited to try on a really nice suit for the first time."
"First time, huh? So, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a personal trainer."
The answer doesn’t surprise me. Personal trainer makes sense—it would explain the athletic wear. It's also perfectly plausible that someone in that field might need extra income, especially in a city as expensive as New York.
I nod. "You haven't even asked me what I'll pay. You're clearly not a great negotiator."
Margaret's eyes dart between us, her professional smile flickering with barely concealed interest while she adjusts a nearby display.
Blair shrugs, that annoying smile spreading again. "Maybe I'm just optimistic about your generosity."
“My generosity has limits,” I say. “Let's see if you can pull off looking like you actually earn six figures once we get you out of those track pants.”
For the next hour, I watch Blair—Sailor—try on formal wear. Margaret, who has overheard our conversation and is clearly confused about the whole situation, guides us through the process, bringing out suits in different cuts and styles. Classic black, midnight blue, subtle patterns that only show in certain light.
When Margaret makes her try on a suit with satin lapels, Blair looks at herself in the three-way mirror and deadpans, "I look like a mobster who reads poetry in her spare time."
"I disagree, you look great," Margaret says. "How does it feel?" She adjusts the jacket of the midnight blue suit that fits her like a glove.
"It feels expensive." She then turns to me. "What do you think? Do I look like a finance director?"
"Actually, you do." The transformation is remarkable. The suit makes her look polished, and the tailoring emphasizes her great shoulders.
"You look good," I admit. "Really good. My mother might even approve."
"Ah, my dear mother-in-law. What's her name?"
I laugh. "Moira. And your father-in-law is called Bill."
Margaret brings out shoes—black patent leather with pointed toes. I watch the total climbing on the discreet tablet she's using to track everything, but I don't care. This is an investment in maintaining family peace.
"Will you be needing the ensemble for travel?" Margaret asks. "We can arrange for pressing services at your destination."
"Don't worry about that," I tell her. "It's a farm wedding."
Both Margaret and Blair catch my eye in the mirror.
"A farm wedding?” Blair asks. “Should I be prepared for hay bales and mason jars?"
"My family runs a farm," I explain. "So yeah, it will be... rustic."
"Got it. Rustic chic. I can work with that."
Blair changes back into her track pants while Margaret takes notes on her tablet about alterations—the sleeves need to come up half an inch, the waist taken in slightly.
