“Cashmere’s not bulletproof against frump.”
The sound she makes at my come back is akin to a half-gasp, half-growl as she tries to push past me.
Hooking my arm out to block her path, I dive deeper into the racks of cotton and chaos.
It not just about finding her an outfit anymore. This clothing war, is now based on principle.
Also… the view is well worth the trouble.
Ducking under my arm, she bends over to yank a top out of a bottom drawer, and I lose my train of thought for at least thirty seconds.
Long, toned legs, and the curve of her plump, round ass are staring me right in the face.
Jesus.
Already shirtless, I’m dangerously close to losing more than just my shirt, so instead, I turn away, cough, and launch another dress over my shoulder. “Too pink.”
“That’sraspberry!”
“It’s one sequin short of a Barbie Dreamhouse.”
Noia huffs behind me, her voice growing sharp. “Why are you like this?”
“Um... How many times do I have to tell you? You wrote me this way. Or did you forget already?”
“Shit. I must be some sort of masochist,” she mutters. “Pretty sure I’m gonna need years of therapy.”
“Little late for that, kitten,” I grin.
It takes another ten minutes of glorious chaos—me flinging every fashion offense over my shoulder, while Noia curses like a sailor trying to stop me—before I finally find it. A little red number buried between a tragic bridesmaid dress and an old tattered hoodie.
The top is off the shoulder with long, flowing sleeves. The red fabric whispers danger and confidence. It’s the kind of top that’ll make any man want to unbutton not just his pants, but his morals—if he has any to begin with.
Holding it up like a trophy, I crow, “Found it!”
Mouth open, Noia stares, eyes wide with shock. “I haven’t worn that since?—”
“Well, you’re wearing it tonight.”
She hesitates, lips parting as her fingers brush the fabric. “It’s too dressy.”
I take a step closer and lower my voice. “No. It’sperfect.”
Her gaze lifts to mine and silence pulses, thick and electric in the air between us.
Tearing her gaze away, she swipes the top from my hand and spins around, muttering something about needing at least ten minutes and threatening me with violence if I so much as peek.
Fair enough.
While I wait, I take some time to look around.
Her bedroom smells like lavender and paper, and the walls are a grayish-blue, kind of like the sky right before a storm breaks it wide open.
One wall has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with romance novels, poetry, old journals, even a few vintage fairy tales with cracked leather spines.
The queen-sized bed is a mess of rumpled cream colored sheets, a mountain of pillows tucked into mismatched cases and covered in a quilt that looks handmade.
One side of the bed is clearly more lived-in than the other, with an open notebook and a pen half-tucked underneath a pillow.
