“Are we going to a restaurant?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
I smile. “Nope. The top floor has a private shop. You’re going to give me a fashion show and pick anything you want to buy.”
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and I find myself missing the purple. This color is gorgeous on her, of course. Any color would look gorgeous on her. But I miss the days when she felt like she belonged to only me.
No other guys seemed to notice her before—other than that dirtbag Cody—but now her style is what most people find conventionally attractive. She’s started wearing clothes that show off her body, like the tank top she’s wearing now, when she used to wear baggy T-shirts and sweaters. Her eyes are huge and prominent now, when her big glasses used to take up her whole face.
She looks beautiful, but she was beautiful before. I must be a possessive dick. I should be happy that other people now see what I always saw.
Instead, it makes me anxious.
I chose this date to ward off the anxiety. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to hide her away. Once she’s mine—which she will be by the end of the game, damn it—I’ll have no reason to be anxious.
“That sounds expensive,” Amy says. “What kind of sponsor did they get for this date?”
I lean in and kiss her soft cheek. She doesn’t pull away, which makes my stomach flip over.
She’s warming up to me.
“My mom’s agency sponsored this one. Since they don’t really do advertising—Hollywood agents don’t really need it—she let me choose the event.”
Her eyes widen. “Wow. It must be nice to be rich.”
I laugh, squeezing her hand. “You get to be rich today. I mean it when I say you can pick whatever you want. No budget.”
“Seriously?” She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with disbelief.
“Absolutely.” I’m unable to keep the grin off my face. “I wanted to do something memorable. Something never done in this competition. Plus…” I smirk, glancing at her dark hair. “I noticed you’ve gotten more into fashion lately.”
She lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. God, she’s so cute. She was probably trying to make me jealous with her whole makeover thing.
I am jealous. She knows me well.
As we exit the elevator and enter the private shop, Amy’s eyes grow huge. The vaulted ceiling has a large, sparkling chandelier hanging from it, and the area is covered in tidy racks of clothes. The store attendant greets us with a smile, delivering whatever speech the film crew must have fed her.
The director tells us to pretend like the crew isn’t there, and he assures Amy that they won’t come into the dressing room unless she invites them.
It doesn’t soothe her. She’s biting that full bottom lip, her eyes wide as she glances around the racks of clothes.
“Don’t be shy,” I say. “The whole store is yours if you want it.”
“Okay.” She walks over to a rack of clothes and brushes her fingers over a blue dress.
“I love blue on you,” I say.
Her head jerks in my direction, skepticism spreading over her features. “You’re just saying that.”
I walk over to her, lean down, and brush my lips over her cheek. “No, I’m not. You wore blue on our first one-on-one. It makes your eyes sparkle.”
Her expression grows hesitant, as if she doesn’t believe me. She glances back at the blue dress and stares at it for a moment before taking it off the rack. “I guess I’ll go try it on.”
It sounds like a question, and I lean forward once again. This time, I give her a hard kiss. “I hope you don’t mind if I wait outside for you to show me,” I whisper.
She looks up at me, her eyes widening. She stares at me for a moment before shyly nodding, and my heart squeezes in my chest.
A few weeks ago, she would have never modeled dresses for me. She wouldn’t have trusted me enough. The progress I’ve made with her is as heady as a drug, and I can only hope the euphoric effects of her warmth will fade after I get plenty more of it over the next few months.
I can’t have incidents like the one a few nights ago. Pinning someone against a wall for a stupid, teasing comment is unhinged behavior, even when it comes to Amy. Back in high school, my jealousy only made me petty. I’d stalk her Instagram and the profiles of any guys who showed the slightest interest inher. I’d congratulate myself for being better looking than any of them and way better at football like the cocky bastard I was. But I never allowed myself to act on my jealousy back then. I didn’t want her to know I was obsessed.
