“Both.” Nitro nods toward the bags. “Italian. Got your favorite.”
“How do you know my favorite?”
“You mentioned it. That night at Franco’s.”
He remembered. Of course, he remembered. Nitro remembers everything—how I take my coffee, my favorite movies, the fact that I hate tomatoes but love tomato soup. It’s one of the thousand little things that make this fake-dating arrangement feel increasingly less fake.
“Okay, stop being adorable for five seconds so we can eat,” Beck says, already unpacking the food. “Then we’re going dress shopping.”
I widen my eyes at him. “We’re what?”
“Dress shopping. For the gala. You need a dress that’s going to make this Derek, the asshole, weep with regret.” Beck turns to Nitro. “You’re coming too.”
“I am?”
“Obviously! She needs a male perspective, and since you’re the fake boyfriend, you get to help pick.” Beck pauses, grinning wickedly. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”
Nitro looks at me, and I see the question in his eyes.Is this okay?
I should say no.
I should create boundaries.
I should remember that this is all pretend and that we’re just helping each other out.
But the thought of spending the afternoon with Nitro, of seeing his reaction when I try on dresses, of having his opinion on what I should wear… “If you’re not busy,” I hear myself say.
“I’m not busy,” he replies immediately, and the smile he gives me could power the entire Las Vegas strip.
“Great!” Beck claps his hands together. “Now let’s eat before Marley gnaws her own arm off. She gets hangry.”
“I donotget hangry.”
“You threw a shoe at Cal last Christmas because dinner was delayed twenty minutes.”
“That’s… that was different. He was being annoying.”
Nitro’s grin is enormous as he starts unpacking containers. “This is gonna be fun.”
Chapter Twelve
MARLEY
The boutique Beck drags us to is the kind of place where everything looks expensive and intimidating. Mannequins pose in the windows wearing dresses that cost more than the total amount my savings account has ever had. And there’s a champagne station near the entrance, as if we’re at some upscale party instead of a store.
“Beck, this is too much,” I whisper as we walk in. “I can’t afford anything here.”
“Who said you’re paying?” He’s already greeting the sales associate like they’re old friends. “Hi, yes, we need dresses for a gala. Something that screams‘You’re going to regret letting this goddess go,’but in a classy way.”
The associate, a woman named Simone with perfect hair and a measuring tape draped around her neck like a fashion stole, looks me up and down with the kind of assessment that usually makes me want to hide.
But then Nitro’s hand lands on my lower back, solid and warm and reassuring. “She’s going to look stunning in whatever she wears,” he says, his voice carrying that low, protective edge I’m starting to recognize. “We’re just here to find something that makes her feel as beautiful as she is.”
Simone’s expression softens. “Well, with that attitude, we’re going to have fun. Come with me, honey.”
Two hours later, I’ve tried on approximately fifteen dresses. Each one gets a reaction from Beck and Nitro, who’ve set up camp in the sitting area outside the fitting rooms, as if this were their personal fashion show.
The first dress is too tight, cutting into my sides and making me hyperaware of every curve.
