“Do you want to see?” Harper’s voice cracks through the haze.
I look down in time to see her place a hand on each cheek again and pull herself apart. A mixture of us drips from her entrance.
All I can muster is a deep sigh in response. How many times can I call this woman perfect before it starts to lose its luster? I am going to take a guess and say the number probably doesn’t exist.
February 7
God forbid a manlike Nolan Archer shop at the mall for clothes. No, too much beneath a man of his stature. Instead we’re two hours away from Cupid at some boutique with a name I can’t pronounce where the clothes don’t even have price tags. The store dripsin white linen and gold baroque accents, doing its best to trick you into thinking you've been transported to Paris.
Saleswomen flock to Nolan the moment we step through the door. They fawn over him and if this place didn't also carry men’s clothing, I would be spiraling thinking I'm just one of many women he’s brought here. But in a shocking turn of events, they didn’t even blink when Nolan told them we’re here for me and not him.
All at once they swarm me, guiding me to the back dressing rooms where measuring tapes are being placed in every crevice and along every limb, around my waist and falling from my hips. And then they’re gone so quickly my head spins.
“Wow,” I say, my voice loaded with shock. I glance over at Nolan, leaning against the wall opposite of the dressing room now overflowing with tulle, satin and organza. I’m having trouble believing all this is even happening. The sex was already hard enough to believe but us together, in the day, running errands, is a fantasy I don’t even let myself have.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just didn’t expect all of…this. I’m used to the mall experience, you know perusing racks of dresses, trying them on myself in front of a mirror, and then stopping by Cinnabon after my inevitable breakdown when nothing fits.”
Nolan pushes off the wall and steps closer to me. “Is it too much?” he asks, dragging a finger down the exposed skin of my arm.
“No, just different.”
In a moment so domestic and so intimate that makes my cheeks burn, he leans down and brushes his lips against my shoulder. “Good. You deserve expensive things, Harper, and I like being the one to give them to you.”
My heartbeat stalls.
“I don’t need things from you, Nolan,” I say the words with blistering honesty. “I just like being with you.”
The world doesn’t halt at my confession, nothing falls from the sky and the ground doesn’t crack beneath us but a look passes over his face. So devastatingly tender, my throat begins to burn.
The spell between us breaks when the saleswoman comes back with a final dress. “Mrs. Archer, we’re ready for you.” With how fast they moved when we got here, they must not have realized I wasn’t his wife.
My mouth opens to correct them, but Nolan leans in, presses a chaise kiss against my cheek and says, “Make sure you come out and show me each one, Mrs. Archer.”
I like the way that sounds. Way too much.
The first four dresses are awful. One doesn’t zip, and the other, I can’t even get up past my hips. One I don't even bother trying on and another my boobs didn’t fit in, and not in the fun sexy way. The room was closing in on me, growing into a furnace with every passing second. What was I thinking, I should have known a high-end boutique carries only sample sizes. As if trying on clothes isn’t hard enough for me most days, this was the start of a nightmare.
I’m tumbling head first into a panic attack when the door clicks open and Nolan slips inside.
“What are you doing? You can’t be in here,” I whisper as he shuts the door and clicks the lock into place.
“Says who?”
“Uhh, common society?”
He rolls his eyes. “You haven't come out to show me any of them.”
I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, as if that will keep my insecurity from pouring out onto the floor between us. “Yeah, well, none of them fit. Can’t really walk out of here if the top doesn’t cover my nipples.”
He glances down at my chest.
“Not this one,” I swat his shoulder. “This one’s fine.”
More like it was the first one to fit. It’s a stunning deep burgundy, floor-length gown with delicate flower beads in the same color that sparkle with every move. It doesn’t look terrible, like I convinced myself it would when I slipped into it, but dress shopping is never a straightforward task. And dress shopping in a place like this, where I’m surprised even one dress fits, makes everything feel like the walls are closing in on me.
“This one is very pretty,” he says freely.
