Dylan
JAKE DROPPED ADDISON off after lunch, and she floated in the door and crashed on the sofa, high-heeled wannabe boots hanging over the arm. A perma-grin stretched across her face, making her look wasted.
“Have you been drinking?” I asked, eyeballing her. Her pupils did look a little dilated.
She giggled. “Not alcohol.”
All righty then. “Had a good time, did ya?” As her best friendI felt obligated to ask, but I was silently praying she wouldn’t share more details than I could handle.
“That man.” She fanned herself. “I’m gonna have his babies.”
Desperate to derail that train of thought, I convinced her into postponing any and all talk of baby-having for the moment so we could go shopping for disguises to wear to Kirk’s funeral.
“I’m fine with the disguise thing, Dylan,but we can’t forget that Ella’s bringing gowns by tonight.”
“Gowns?” I asked.
“For the fundraiser. You and I need to pick ours.”
“Oh, right. When you’re über rich, the department stores come to you.”
She giggled. “It doesn’t suck.”
“I thought I might wear—”
“Nope,” she said emphatically, interrupting me. “You will wear what I pick for you, I will pay for it, and you will not say anotherword about it.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “You’re kind of a bossy pain in the ass, Addie.”
“I’m aware,” she quipped. “Okay, let’s go hunt down our disguises.”
Four stores and about as many hundreds of dollars later, we had the perfect garb to play the role of inconspicuous mourners, and arrived home ten minutes ahead of Addison’s personal shopper.
I’d rather have bamboo shoots forced undermy fingernails than go mall shopping, but it turns out having a personal shopper was worse. The shopper said her name was Monique, but I’m pretty sure she meant Satan. Addison had given her my sizes—along with a rundown of my current wardrobe—which Monique must have lost, because nothing she brought looked like anything I’d wear.
“How about this one?” she asked, waving a lacy pink gown in mydirection.
