“Then here is what we will do. My companion will choose whatever catches her eye. Then, when she decides on a dress, you will put me in contact with the designer and I will have them remake it, in her size.”
Her eyebrows raise a bit. “I see. That could be possible. What sort of time frame are we working with?”
“Ten days.”
Her eyebrows raise a bit more. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but having a dress custom-made by one of our designers on that sort of time frame would be rather expensive.”
“Cost is no object. Bring out what you have in her approximate size. Whatever needs to be done will be done. Altered, tailored, remade if necessary.” He fixes his gaze on the shop woman in that Roman sort of way. “If a dress doesn’t worship her body, burn it.”
I try not to smile. I fail.
We’re taken to the back changing area. The first dress is brought in. It’s a gorgeous, silk, champagne-colored gown that drips over me like liquid light. It’s tight here and there, but it fits. When I step out of the fitting room, Roman looks up and stills. His gaze moves over me slowly, like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. It’s consuming and appreciating all at once.
“Turn.”
I do. He narrows his eyes, giving the matter serious thought.
“Too polite.”
The next dress is emerald. Then black velvet. Then a scandalous dress with a low back that makes me feel glamorous, sexy, and confident in a way I’m not used to.
Roman’s commentary is spare but succinct.
“Better.”
“Dangerous.”
“Getting warmer.”
By the time I try on the fourth dress, my cheeks hurt from all the blushing. By the fifth, I’m addicted to the way he looks at me when I walk out of the dressing room.
I still don’t feel quite right. The dresses are beautiful, but none of them have the “it” factor. It’s like each one is a reminder that my body isn’t made for these gowns.
I’m halfway through slipping into the next one when a wave of exhaustion hits me. I feel shoved into the dress, yet another reminder that I’m too big and take up too much space. Maybe Max showing up was the universe’s way of telling me he was right.
When the door opens, I let out a squeak of surprise.
Roman walks in, closing the door calmly behind him. “Relax. She’s on the phone.”
“You can’t just?—”
“I absolutely can.” He steps closer, his eyes moving over me. “Watching you doubting yourself is becoming intolerable.”
“I’m not doubting?—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “And you’re wrong.”
I open my mouth to speak but close it before a single word comes out.
Roman moves behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I feel a little silly, standing there with the dress half-pulled on. One hand settles on my waist, his thumb tracing the soft curve there.
“Look at yourself,” he says. “Reallylook.”
The gown clings to my waist, pushing up just a bit to where my boobs seem on the verge of pouring out of my bra. The silk clings to my belly, which rounds softly above where the top of the dress is pulled.
I feel exposed.
Roman’s palm spreads, touching more of me.
