Excuse after excuse. So far, they work. I’ve been touched. Three men—four including Mr. Simons—have been bold enough to push their grubby fingers under my skirt and over my pussy, but other than the European pedophile, no one else raped me.
I’ve dealt with what happened. It didn’t leave any lasting damage on my mind—probably because, half the time, I don’t even believe it happened. After the therapy, I blocked it from my mind, but it took a long time before I had a healthy sexual relationship.
Once I can’t hear any footsteps, I exit the stall, wash my hands, lips, and every part of my body Mr. Simons touched, then head back on deck. For the rest of the day, I stay in plain sight. I don’t drink any more, so I won’t have to use the restroom and risk Mr. Simons following me again.
But when my father drops me off at home, I feel dirty.
Violated.
I head straight for the shower, scrubbing myself clean until my skin turns pink.
FOURTEEN
Blair
UNDER STRICT INSTRUCTION from my father, I enter the high-end suit store, feeling out of place.
The plush carpet cushions my steps as I walk further in, taking in the grandeur. The walls are lined with rows of neatly displayed suits in different shades and textures. Crystal chandeliers glitter from the ceiling, illuminating pristine white walls and highlighting the luxurious fabrics.
A heady mix of fresh linen, leather, and cologne assaults my olfactory nerves.
For the first time since my father “employed” me to flirt with people he’s manipulating, I’m allowed to wear something other than red to a banquet he’s planning.
No date has been set, but he barked over the phone this morning that I should be prepared. Instead of red, I’m supposed to wear white. I didn’t question it because he’s allowing me to choose the dress I’ll wear.
“Don’t get smart with me, Blair. You’re choosing the dress, but if it’s not like the others I bought you, you’ll fucking regret it.”
So the style still stands—short, slutty, but I can pick the right size and not sheer lace. That’s a win, so I eagerly got in my car and drove to the mall.
Another thing I didn’t question was his order to come here and buy him a crisp white tie. Heading straight for the correct rack, I stop, catching sight of familiar, broad shoulders and dark hair in a bun.
He’s on the phone, flipping through the shirt rack. Three already hang from his pinkie—black, powder blue, and cream. I’m rooted to the spot, wondering what sick game karma is playing.
Is it not enough that we live across the hall from each other? Now I’m bumping into him outside our limited, gated community?
Taking a deep breath, I step aside, hiding behind a tall rack of suits, my stomach bottoming out. Knowing he’ll be heading toward the changing rooms, I wait until he disappears before I scan the shelves for a white tie.
My gaze lands on a pale yellow tie, and I immediately wonder how it would look against Cody’s tanned skin.
There’s a shirt in the exact same color on the rack he was just at. God... why am I doing this to myself?
It’s a stupid,stupididea, but before I know it, my feet carry me toward the changing rooms, yellow shirt in hand.
The dusty-gray curtain of the one occupied room is drawn shut, and I hesitate. I shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t, but...
Inhaling and holding a sharp breath, I push the shirt through the tiny gap, heart in my throat.
Every time we meet, every time I see him, my crush grows tenfold while he remains unaffected. Not entirely, sure. The way he looks at me sometimes is a dead giveaway that he finds me attractive, but he’s not as affected as I am.
My body tingles, my mouth turns dry, and I’m a ball of nerves whenever his dark eyes meet mine.
“Try this one,” I say, immediately regretting my decision to play personal shopping assistant to the man who weakens my knees. “For Logan’s wedding,” I add as a form of clarification because it’s been three seconds of deafening silence, and I just stand here, gawking at the gray curtain, one hand in Cody’s changing room.
I all but jump out of my skin when his warm, calloused hand wraps around my wrist. A surprised gasp escapes me as he pulls me into the cramped space.
He’s wearing a pair of charcoal slacks I’ve not seen him pick out, the button and zipper undone, revealing his snow-white boxers. A cream shirt is draped over his back, his muscular chest inches from my face, scent assaulting my senses.
“Yellow?” he questions, still gripping my wrist.
