We’re surrounded by high-end stores filled with expensive clothing. The people entering and exiting the shops look like they wipe their butts with Benjamin Franklin’s face. I wouldn’t even be able to afford the complimentary beverages that places like this hand out to shoppers.
Hunter ignores my question and slides out of the limo through his door. He holds his hand out to me, and I reluctantly take it. As we stand on the sidewalk, I gawk at the large sign above the arched entrance.
“Is this another thing with you guys?” I question without looking at him. “Only answering select questions? Do you like leaving people hanging in suspense?” My voice grows thin.
“This is hardly a suspenseful situation,” Hunter counters. He grabs my hand, guiding me to wrap it around his arm, like he’s escorting me down the red carpet or something.
When he steps forward, I pull back. “Wait. I’ve never been in a store like that.”
“So?”
“Do you really not see the issue here?” I gesture from him to myself, then to the store.
Hunter’s tone turns gruff, daring me to say it out loud. “Spell it out for me, Savannah.”
I hesitate as my fingers curl into my palm. “Someone like me doesn’t belong in a place like that.”
“Where you belong is with me.” Hunter uses his other hand to cover my mine that rests on his arm to emphasize his point. “If anyone makes you feel otherwise, they won’t be a problem much longer.”
His promise is dark but legitimate, stirring my insides into a heated frenzy.
“You can’t just go around getting rid of people who make me feel bad.” I mean for my statement to sound stern, but it comes out breathy.
Hunter smirks. “I can, and I will.” He guides me toward the store, and I follow, all feelings of inadequacy gone and replaced with need. “Now keep your head up. Act like you belong and everyone will believe it.”
“Okay,” I accept.
“Good girl.”
Inside, we’re welcomed by a keen woman, who looks not much older than me, but her eyes don’t stray from Hunter’s charming smile.
She hands each of us a flute of bubbly and offers her assistance. “What can I help you with?”
As I take a tentative sip, Hunter answers, “We’re just out shopping for my wife.”
“Aw, what a good husband you are,” she replies.
My eyes pop out of my head, and I choke on the champagne. Coughing for air, tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.
What did he just call me?
Hunter takes the glass from me and hands it back to the employee. “She’s just excited about the new clothes.”
It’s hard to glare while choking, but I think I manage it.
As my fit subsides, the woman leads us to a secluded area toward the back of the store. Hunter settles into the leather wingback chair, situated next to a mirror and an individualdressing room. He tells the woman to “give me the works” and pulls out his phone.
Does he ever stop working?
“My name is Sabrina. Let me know if there’sanythingelse I can help you with.” Her second sentence is directed more toward Hunter rather than me, but he doesn’t indicate he heard her at all.
That was bold of her.
Tapping my foot, I shove my hands onto my hips and shoot daggers at Hunter with my eyes. If only I actually had my knives.
“Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?” Hunter asks, typing away on his phone.
“I’m not your wife,” I spit out in a low but menacing whisper.
