"Hours, then. I won't try to sell you a thing outside of your budget," she promised Irina, "but if we've the time, and youdon't mind, I'd love to dress you up just to see what we can make of you. I ought to call Sal in and have him shoot you, in fact. You'd be a grand petite model. Though then I'd need a whole employment form, as I'd use them for advertising and I wouldn't have you do that for free."
By the time she'd finished speaking, she'd also swept at least a dozen dresses off the racks that they'd gone by, and now held an armful of cloth. "I don't suppose you're wearing an excellent bra."
That was a question Mick would love to know the answer to, but wouldn't have ever thought to, or had the nerve to, ask. Irina, though surprised, also laughed. "We were doing a photo shoot this morning, actually, so yeah, I am. I skipped the shape wear, though, is that okay?"
"If we need to smooth any bumps out I'll wrangle you into some of our own," Sorcha said airily, and ushered Irina into the changing rooms while Mick, feeling slightly unneeded, took a seat. A few minutes later a shriek of laughing delight emerged from the changing room, and then so did Irina, wearing a frothy pale pink concoction that floated around her as she spun.
"I have absolutely nowhere to ever wear something like this," she said happily, "but it's pretty."
"It's…" Mick had no words. The bodice was fitted, but sleeveless, showing off her strong slim shoulders and arms, and her hair was down, falling around her shoulders in dark waves. "You're only gorgeous," he said helplessly. "A man would marry you in that dress."
A blush rushed up Irina's cheeks, but she gave him an impish smile. "A man wouldn't fit into this dress as well as I do."
Mick burst out laughing. "You know what I mean!"
"I do," she said, shyly now, and spun around again in a cloud of skirts before turning back toward the changing rooms.
"No, you don't!" Sorcha cried. "Pictures first! Mick, make yourself useful, lad!"
"Oh! Do you want me to use your phone?" he asked Irina. "Or is it all right if I've copies of the pictures too?"
"This was your idea," she told him with a smile. "And we're…friends," she said, clearly replacing the phrase 'fated mates' with the single word. "I don't mind if they're on your phone."
Mick breathed, "Brilliant," and feeling more useful, happily took pictures while she posed and laughed. Then she disappeared back into the changing room, where more giggles rose before she came out again in a completely different style of dress—this one fit intolittle black dresscategories perfectly, all snug and slinky and mature—to pose for the camera again.
Every time she showed off a new dress, Mick felt himself fall a little deeper in love. Even an absolutely awful yellow thing that did her no favors at all was great fun, just because it suited her so badly and was so unexpected. An orange dress in a similar style actually worked incredibly well, though, and Mick realized it was the color, more than the dress itself. Irina bounced in and out of the changing room, followed each time by a smugly pleased Sorcha, who was clearly enjoying herself just as much as Irina was. Actual hours passed unbelievably quickly, everyone having a good time, though Mick was sure he saw the dress she wanted most go by quite early in the fittings. There was something about the way she'd brushed her fingers over the skirt and the hopeful look in her eyes as she'd exited the changing room.
As they finally wound up, he said, "Could I see the red one again?" and Irina shot him a look, somewhere between grateful and startled, that made him that much more certain he was right. She went back to change again, and came out a final time in the dress with an expression of pure shy hope.
It wasjustthis side of fancy: if it had had any adornment on the bodice, Mick thought, it would have become a short, semi-formal gown instead of a casual dress. Instead, the plain, deep, square-cut neckline and sleeveless bodice of rough silk, with a full but uneven-length skirt in the same fabric with a layer of chiffon silk over it, walked the line between formality and informality perfectly. With Irina's hair down, as it currently was, the dress was perfect for a casual dinner out. With her hair up and jewelry dripping from her ears, it would be something she could wear to any formal occasion. Mick breathed, "It's perfect. You're beautiful."
"Isn't it pretty?" Irina asked wistfully. "I'm sure it costs too much, though." The wistfulness disappeared as she shot Sorcha a wry look. "I've never shopped anywhere that didn't have price tags. 'If you have to ask, you can't afford it,' you know?"
"It's not that bad," Sorcha promised. "And you do look wonderful."
"Thank you." Irina actually curtseyed, then went back to change into her regular clothes, calling, "I'm not sure my clogs are formal enough to wear with it, though, and I don't want to go shoe shopping, too!"
Actually, her backless clogs with their thick platform soles and black leather tops were perfect for dressing the dress down, in Mick's opinion. Heels would do the same thing putting her hair up would: move it into the realm of formality. As she changed, Sorcha approached, voice lowered. "She's right, mind you. It's three hundred forty quid, and that's well over her budget. But I've no problem ringing it up at two hundred and trusting you on the rest later."
The impulse to agree sizzled through Mick, but he quashed it with a reluctant smile. "I'd love to say yes, but I don't think I ought to start out by lying to her. She deserves the truth."
Sorcha gave him an appraising look and patted his shoulder. "You're a sound lad, Mick Mahoney. I hope she appreciates you." She went up to the front of the shop, leaving Mick to wait forIrina, who came out a few minutes later in her own clothes and a still-wistful smile on her face as she carried the red dress with her.
"It's too much. I know it is."
"It is," Mick admitted. "More than half again what you were hoping. But it's perfect for you, Irina. Will you not let me buy it for you?"
She squinched up her face like that had been actually painful. "Howmuchmore than half again? That's not a way of saying it costs three thousand euros, is it?"
Mick laughed, startled. "No, though I suppose that would be more than half again. No, it's under three fifty, but not by much."
Irina eyed him. "Three forty nine ninety nine?"
He laughed again and shook his head. "Three forty."
Irina groaned and sat with the dress in her lap. "That's much less than one of my costume dresses. Why do I feel like it's way too much for a regular dress?"
Mick sat beside her, trying not to loom or be overwhelming with his size and presence. "I'd say it's because the costumes areforsomething," he said slowly. "Part of your ambition, like. You work hard and those dresses are meant to help show off the work you've done. But when something is 'just' for you—" he made air quotes around the 'just'— "then it feels like an extravagance. Like it's not been earned. And it's harder for us to spoil ourselves than it is for us to work."
