I studied myself in the mirror, turning my head from side to side. I never would’ve asked for a cut as asymmetrical and stylish as this, but I had to admit it made my cheekbones look sharper, which in turn made my eyes pop. I looked like a woman who barked orders into her cell phone as she power-walked to her corner office.
“What do you think?” Nora asked Logan, who was milling around sniffing bottles of shampoo.
He turned and studied my reflection in the mirror. His brown eyes locked with mine. “I liked the way Alexis looked before.” Before my heart could drop, he added, softly, “But this is good, too.”
“Excellent.” Nora was already walking out. “Now let’s do something about those clothes.”
“I don’t belong here,” I whispered as Nora loaded my arms with blazers. “Any second now, someone’s going to come tell me they don’t have anything for me and I’m obviously in the wrong place.”
Logan snapped his fingers.“Pretty Woman.”
“What?” Nora asked.
“I’m like Julia Roberts inPretty Woman,” I said. “Trying to buy clothes somewhere out of my league.” Driftwood and Rose was only three doors down from Acid Betty, but the atelier was as refined and minimalist as Betty was grunge-chic. I’d flipped over a price tag on one of the skirts and almost gagged, dropping it before my fingerprints could do any damage.
“Isn’t that the movie where she’s a sex worker?” Nora rifled through the racks. “Never saw it.” She shot me an interested look. “Is it a political movie? The Arthur campaign supports sex work legalization.”
“It’s more a lighthearted rom-com about a quirky sex worker and a billionaire with a heart of gold.”
“And that’s not political? Sounds like billionaire propaganda to me.”
“Miraculously, they found a way to dodge politics in favor of romance.”
“That’s silly.” Nora’s eyes went back to roaming the neat rows of fabric. “Love is always political. Especially for women. Who you care for and believe in, what you do with your body, who you’re dependent on, the extent of your autonomy. Strange to me that people pretend you can separate the two.”
“And you don’t have to worry about paying,” Logan said, zeroing in on my secret fear. He flicked a price tag. “The Democratic Committee insisted on a line item in our budget for grooming, even though I told them it was a waste of money.”
“Oh, yes, the long lines at your speaking events have nothing to do with what you look like and everything to do with your recycling plan.” Nora gave him a look that fell somewhere between fond and exasperated. “The good news is, you use a quarter of what we budgeted. So we’ve got plenty to spare for Alexis.”
“Does that make the Democratic Committee my Richard Gere sugar daddy?” I mused, and Logan barked a laugh just as a gaunt, impeccably dressed woman flitted over. Oh, no—this was it. The moment I got asked to leave. My heart beat like I’d stolen something.
Strangely, the woman smiled at me, her expression full of warmth. “Hello, my dear. How may I help you?”
When I didn’t answer right away, taken aback, Nora rolled her eyes and said, “We’ll take another one of those Paul Smith suits in navy for this guy—you have his measurements on file—and a fitting room for her. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” said the woman, and scurried away.
Logan and I glanced at each other. He shook his head. “She didn’t even tell you you’re obviously in the wrong place. Honestly, kind of a letdown.”
“You really don’t have to stand there handing me things,” I said to Logan through the changing room curtain. It was oatmeal-colored, nearly sheer—I could make out the outline of his broad shoulders—and short enough that I could see his polished shoes on the other side. My heart wouldn’t stop hammering as I pulled clothes on and off. With only a thin barrier between us, I should have felt exposed, but instead I couldn’t help picturing what would happen if he brushed the curtain aside, drank in the sight of my bare skin... I shivered, goose bumps lifting on my arms.
“It’s not a problem.” His outline shrugged. “You know... I’m kind of happy you don’t feel comfortable here.”
I froze with a green sheath dress half on. “You are?”
There was a long pause. Through the curtain, I saw him lace his fingers together. “Yeah. Makes me feel less alone.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, how’s it going?”
I tugged the dress down and looked at myself in the mirror. Then I took a deep breath and opened the curtain.
I’d caught him by surprise. His wide eyes drifted down, taking me in, the look on his face more serious than I’d expected. I turned my back to him. “Zip me?”
In the mirror, I watched him hesitate before his hand came to rest on my waist, the other finding the zipper. “Green’s a good color on you.” He tugged the zipper slowly.
“Thank you.” The world narrowed to two sensations: the warm pressure of his hand on my waist and the light skim of his fingertips up my spine as he pulled the zipper. I bit the inside of my lip, wondering if it was possible for his touch to sear my skin, leave a mark. Though he touched me lightly, it felt like it could. And I would welcome it. Then I could trace the trail of his fingertips, proof this beautiful, quiet moment between us had existed.
He brushed my hair from my neck. “All done,” he said quietly. But his hands didn’t move.
Slowly, I turned to face him, pulse skipping. “So. What do you think?”
