“Yes.”
“Like outside, where other humans can see?”
“Yes, Madison.”
I swallow.
The assistant clears her throat. I forgot she was standing there. “So, are we going with these?”
Beckett doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, and the black pair.”
Ah, I was hoping he’d say that.
At the register, I instinctively reach for my card. His hand gently pushes it back down.
“Madison,” he warns.
I sigh. “Shit. Sorry. I am not a kept woman.”
He cocks a brow that makes me believe he’s still picturing me in those red heels.
I don’t speak again until he’s paid and we’re outside, heading toward his car.
“You realize,” I say, “that this is how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
“Me expecting things.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. You don’t get to tell a woman she’s high-maintenance and then act surprised when she has standards,” he continues, taking my hand. “We’regoing to dinner. You’re wearing those. God help me.”
I look down at our hands again.
If this is what maintenance looks like, I might have been undercharging.
∞∞∞
I have nothing to wear.
This is ridiculous because I own clothes. Good clothes. Date-worthy clothes. But none of them feel right with the red heels currently sitting on my rug.
Emmy is sprawled across my bed, and Celeste is sitting cross-legged beside her.
“Madi,” Emmy says patiently, “the black dress was amazing on you.”
“I’ve already worn it,” I argue from inside my wardrobe.
Celeste tilts her head. “Once. You’ve worn it once.”
I shimmy into something else and step out.
Both of them stare.
Celeste lifts one brow. “That’s not it.”
