“She’s going to think we don’t like her anymore.”
Something twisted in my chest that felt suspiciously like my heart trying to tie itself in knots. “I hope she does. It’ll keep her away from us. From this.”
For once, Barnaby didn’t protest. His tail slumped, but he didn’t argue with me.
He knew, like I did, that some things were more important than others. And no matter how much he cared about his Title, Hazel’s safety still mattered more.
8
Ghosted
Hazel
Once upon a time, when I’d thought I might still have a chance at a love life, I’d tried my luck with dating apps. I’d had moderate success. Some of the men I’d spoken with had been interesting. But unavoidably, the result had always been the same.
The chat died. I lost interest. And I just ghosted them.
It wasn’t something I took pride in. It just kind of happened. My time was better spent working on my cakes than continuing a conversation that would lead nowhere.
Karma was a vicious bitch, because now that I was finally interested in someone, he was ghostingme.
More than a week had passed since Brok and Barnaby’s last visit. One week of radio silence from them both. I’d sent texts that went unread. I’d called and hit voicemail immediately. I’d even considered showing up at Brok’s apartment with a peace offering of dark chocolate truffles. There was just one problem with that idea. I didn’t know where he lived.
It was just as well. Showing up without being invited like some kind of stalker was too pathetic to even consider.
Instead, I’d stayed home and stress-baked seventeen dozen cookies for the senior center. Mrs. Patterson had actually hugged me. That was how pathetic I’d become.
My phone buzzed with another message from Nana. The fifth one today. All of them variations on the same theme: had I picked out a dress for the gala yet? Did I need her to send Hunter with her credit card? Was I absolutely certain I remembered the date?
The woman had survived three husbands and built a small empire through sheer force of will. You’d think she could trust me to remember a single social engagement. But no. Apparently my ability to run a successful business for five years didn’t translate to basic calendar management in Nana’s eyes.
I needed a dress. More specifically, I needed a dress that would satisfy Nana’s exacting standards while not making me feel like I was attending my own wake. The intersection of those two requirements existed somewhere in the fashion equivalent of Bigfoot territory. Theoretically possible, never actually documented.
Which was how I found myself downtown on a Thursday afternoon, standing in front of Maison Élégante with all the enthusiasm of a woman approaching a root canal.
The boutique’s windows gleamed with tasteful displays of mannequins in gowns that probably cost more than my commercial oven. Everything was cream and champagne and delicate blush. Everything here belonged on someone who subsisted entirely on air and the approval of others.
I pushed through the door anyway. A tiny bell chimed overhead. Within the blink of an eye, a saleswoman materialized in front of me.
“Welcome to Maison Élégante.” She was impossibly thin, impossibly elegant, and smiling in a way that made my skin crawl. “Are you looking for something special today?”
I recognized that tone. I’d heard it my whole life, usually right before someone suggested I might be ‘happier’ shopping in a different section. It didn’t take a genius to realize she’d already catalogued every flaw in my appearance and found me wanting. My plain sweater, my loose jeans, my simple sneakers. They were all a crime here. As was, worst of all, my weight.
“I need a dress for a charity gala.” The words came out more defensively than I’d intended. “Something appropriate for a formal event.”
Her gaze swept over me in a single, assessing glance. I could practically hear her internal calculations: size, budget, likelihood of actually making a purchase versus just wasting her time.
“Of course.” Her smile tightened fractionally, but she stayed professional. Sort of. “Let me show you our selection of evening wear in your size.”
She guided me toward the back of the store, where the dresses were noticeably less prominently displayed. Hidden, really, as if they were shameful secrets. Everything here was in darker colors, with more forgiving cuts. She couldn’t have made her disdain more obvious if she’d tried.These are for women like you. Nothing else will fit.
The dresses she pulled were fine. They were exactly the kind of thing Nana would approve of on principle: modest, mature, respectable. Hiding every imperfection.
I hated every single one with the passion of a thousand suns.
“Perhaps this one?” The saleswoman held up a navy blue number with a high neckline and three-quarter sleeves. It looked like something a particularly conservative librarian would wear to a funeral. “Very elegant. Very slimming.”
Slimming. Of course. Of course the priority wasn’t whether I looked good, or felt confident, or even liked the damn dress. The priority was making sure I took up less space. Visually, if not physically.
