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“Thank you.”

After a very lengthy twenty minutes of perusing, I pass off a handful of dresses to Francesca, who carries them back to one of the dressing rooms for me.

As we pass Thierry, his gaze trails after me, before returning to his phone as he answers a call. The conversation he holds sounds entirely in French, given the accent, leaving me completely clueless as to whom, or what, he might be talking to, or about.

“Lingerie?” The question swings my attention back to Francesca, who stands just outside of the dressing room. “Will you be needing some lingerie?”

It occurs to me what prompted the question when the scratch of cotton over my bare nipples brings me to the unflinching awareness that hearing Thierry speak French is a turn on. I’m not wearing a bra. “Um. Yes.”

“Très bien! I’ll grab some.”

With a nod, I wait for her to close the curtain and reach for the first dress. One I actually grabbed as a joke, because of its deep plunging neckline and thigh-high hem that screams a night out in Ibiza, instead of a first meeting with his sister. Adorned with silvery sequins that remind me of fish scales, it’s a bit loud, even for me. And I tend to be forgiving of the ugly things.

Choking back a laugh, I emerge from the dressing room. “What about this?” After twisting around in front of him, I pause to take in the quirk of his brow.

With a huff, he eases back in his chair, stretching his arm over it in a way that makes me want to crawl into his lap. “If that’s the one you like.”

“Seriously? You’re not going to throw one of those possessive and jealous alpha male fits, like something out of a mafia romance?”

“You’re free to wear whatever you like, catin. Just as I’m free to kill anyone who looks at you in it.”

“That has to be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Thierry.” Unfortunately, I’m not big on pink. Smiling to myself, I slip back into the dressing room and try on the next.

Too fancy.

Swapping it for the third leaves me frowning, as I twist to see the fabric clinging to my ass.

Definitely not.

The fourth is also a dud, the way it seems to draw all of the attention toward my boobs.

It’s rare that I find a dress that doesn’t make me look like a porn star in it, and I’m beginning to think that maybe it was a bad idea to come along with him today.

“Céleste?” Francesca says, from behind the curtain.

I open it to find her holding up a black dress I dismissed. One that looked a bit too casual and plain on the hanger.

“It’s simple, but I’ve found it’s the ones we think are plain on the outside that end up being the most beautiful.”

With a genuinely gracious smile, I accept the dress, trying to decode whether, or not, she just called me plain on the outside. Closing the curtain again, I stand staring at it hanging from the hook. Black. I never wear black. Black draws the eyes to my pale skin and, inevitably, my scars. My scars incite unwanted questions. Unfortunately, I’m not having much luck with any of the other dresses, though.

With a sigh, I reluctantly change into the dress.

The modest V-neck sits just above my breasts, with only a hint of cleavage, and tapers into a perfect empire waist, which blooms into a simple straight hem that hangs to just above my knees. So simple and beautiful, it’s the kind of dress I don’t have to fidget in, or pull at to make sure it isn’t riding up somewhere it shouldn’t. Nor is it obscenely sexy, showing off parts of me I don’t think his sister will appreciate. Yet, my skin practically glows against the dark fabric, and with it, every flaw I don’t want seen. The usual hideous styles I wear, short shorts and patterns that never match, tend to serve as distractions, a shield for the defects on my skin that invariably lead to questions. The simplicity of this dress makes me feel exposed. Practically naked.

The only thing left to look at is me.

When I exit the dressing room this time, Thierry’s eyes are on me, and something different swirls in them. Something that makes my stomach flutter.

The man has seen me without a stitch of clothing, but suddenly I feel as if he’s seeing me for the first time. On instinct, I cup my jaw, hiding the scar there. “It’s … plain. I guess.”

“It’s perfect,” he counters.

Arms crossed, Francesca stands off to the side, offering a nod of approval. “The epitome of class and sophistication.”

Sophistication? That’s a word I’ve never associated with myself. Unrefined always seemed to fit so much better.

With a nod, I back myself into the dressing room, and trip over my boots, catching myself on the wall.