“No idea who that is,” he says simply.
I snort. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“I’ll be out all day, but I left a credit card and a few other things on the island counter,” Brookes continues, clearly not interested in discussing Julie-Anne, which only makes me smug as hell. “We have to attend a charity gala tonight. For the children’s hospital.”
My heart jumps up into the back of my throat. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” he says flatly. “You’ll need a dress, shoes, and all that… stuff.”
Easy for him to say. “You’re such a boy.”
“Yeah…” Brookes clears his throat. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Good chat.”
“Bye.”
I look down at the screen, shaking my head. He is so hard to read. Last night over dinner, he was being borderline nice. This morning, he’s back to the closed-off, gruff Brookes he’s always been on the course.
I shrug a shoulder and, scrolling back to my messages with Rodrigo, I grin like the cat that got the canary as I tap out my reply.
Me: I just asked Brookes and he doesn’t even know who Julie-Anne is.
Rodrigo: Because she’s a liar.
Me: I need a dress for a charity gala tonight. Where should I go?
Rodrigo: That depends… is Brookes buying?
Me: Yes.
Rodrigo: Bellamy’s, baby.
My eyes widen at that. Bellamy’s is a super high-end department store on Worth Avenue which is basically the Rodeo Drive of Florida. Luxury, designer stores lining a pristine Palm Beach promenade, the kind of place where people like me can’t even afford to window shop. But today I’m not Poppy Crawford in her rusted Ford Focus with less than eighty bucks in her checking account; today, I’m Poppy Crawford, girlfriend of Brookes Devereaux. I can do this.
The second I step foot inside Bellamy’s, I realize I was wrong. The way the shop assistants look at me, some doing wide-eyed double takes, like they can’t believe someone like me would have the sheer audacity to even consider walking in here. I can’t help but cower.
And sure, maybe I could have dressed up a little. Maybe my jean cut-offs and tank top aren’t appropriate attire for a place like this, but that’s why I’m here. I don’t currently own anything these people would consider appropriate. Outside of working at Vista Palms, I live in jean cut-offs or leggings and tank tops. This is Florida, after all.
“Can I… help you?”
I startle, turning to see a beautiful woman dressed head to toe in crisp white linen, looking me up and down with a smile that doesn’t even come close to matching the look of utter contempt in her icy gray eyes.
I tuck a lock of my wavy, air-dried hair behind my ear, forcing a smile as I say, “I… I’m looking for a dress.”
“A dress.” The assistant’s eyebrows climb slightly higher as she asks, “What sort of…dress?” Her words smack with condescension, making me feel an inch tall.
I look around at the racks of garments. “Umm. Something… formal, I guess. I’m attending a charity gala.”
Her tight smile remains, her gaze shrewd as she looks me up and down again. “Size?”
I swallow hard, tugging at the hem of my slightly cropped tank top. “Sixteen.”
“I’m sorry, what?” She blinks.
“Sixteen,” I say again. Shrugging a shoulder, I add, “Fourteen, if it’s stretchy.”
The woman huffs a laugh, blinking at me before turning and looking out over the sprawling, sleek store. “Ladies, do we stock anything in a…” She huffs another laugh before continuing, “Sixteen?”
