“No.”
He turns around, his arm outstretched, eyes burning a hole in my skull.
“Look, you may know what your mother likes,” I say sourly, “but I know whatIlike, and we’re gonna need to compromise.”
“If I’m paying, you’ll wear what I say.”
An older woman is passing by on the other side of the rack and stares at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Can you believe this guy?” I say to her, and Mr. Asshole blinks, glancing over at the woman as if he only just noticed we were in public. He has the good sense to look apologetic.
He sighs, turning back to me. “Fine. What wouldyoubuy?”
I wander around the racks of clothes. They’re all beautiful, and I can see that they’re well-made, but it’s like having eaten McDonald’s all my life and then being taken to The Ritz. I don’t have a fucking clue what to do.
Finally, I find a midnight blue, sheer blouse. It’s a shimmery material, paired with a dark-blue leather jacket with buttery-soft velvet on the lapel.
I’m about to pick it up when an identical set is thrust at me, but this time in beige and pale pink.
I wince at the colors, but when I glance at Jones’s stormy blue gaze, I take them with a sigh.
“Pants or skirt?” he snaps.
“Why are you so pissy today? I didn’t ask you to bring me here,” I bite out.
“I’m not annoyed about that. You justhaveto have an opinion on everything, don’t you?”
“As a rule, yeah,” I say, and I get an eye roll for my trouble. “Skirt,” I say eventually.
“Thank fuck, at least I can look at your legs if I get bored.”
“Classy.”
“Always.”
He hands me a skirt with a sequin hem that is actually kind of cool. I’d usually never wear anything cream or beige, but I can live with this if I get to wear the leather jacket.
When he hands me some flats, I want to throw them back on the shelf, but I can acknowledge I’m being kind of ungrateful. I take them, letting them dangle by my side. As I balance everything in my arms, I almost drop the leather jacket, and clutch at it, just as the label peeks out from behind the hanger.
I suck in a horrified breath.
“What is it now?” he asks, sounding exasperated.
“This is overthree thousand dollars,”I say, mortified as I go to put it back on the rack. My gut clenches that I am even touching it, won’t my fingers ruin the fabric? I step over to the section where it came from and am about to put it down like it’s a bomb, when a soft hand encircles my wrist, pulling me back.
“I don’t care about the cost,” he says gently.
My head whips around. “How can you not care? That’s three times my monthly rent!”
He doesn’t let go of me, a little frown between his brows as he smooths his thumb over my arm.
“I have the money, Jacqueline. I need you to look like you belong with me, and no woman in the circles I move in would…” he trails off, and I tug my arm free, clutching the clothes to me like a lifeline.
“Look like trash?” I snap.
“I didn’t say that. What I mean is, you don’t wear designer clothes. That’s to your credit, perhaps, but my motherwillnotice. She notices everything.”
“She sounds awful.”
