“Hopefully not Ellison Ward,” I say. “It would be one hell of a story, but I’d rather have the interview in my portfolio.”
He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we’re ready to see evening wear.
Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe’s dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.
I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.
“Try it on,” Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk’s eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. “I’ll be joining the lady.”
“Oh. Of course.”
She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.
I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask when he latches the door behind him.
“Watching you.” He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.
Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan’s face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.
He doesn’t, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan’s eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on—though I’m tempted to strip fully.
But this isn’t my show. The game is that I am at Ryan’s mercy, not the other way around, and though I am frustrated that he has yet to touch me, I can’t deny that I enjoy the tease—as well as this rising anticipation, so keen that it prickles my skin, making me aware of even the simple brush of air against me.
I take the dress off the hanger, then slip it on. It fits like a dream and feels like one against my skin. I stroke my hands over the soft material of the skirt, then give a little gasp of delight when I discover the hidden pocket.
I do a twirl for Ryan to show it off, then turn the pocket out. “I love this,” I say. “The dress and the pocket. It’s very retro. So a girl doesn’t have to take her purse for an evening out. This is all you need for a credit card, a key, maybe even a small lipstick.”
“I’ll carry whatever you need tonight,” he says. “And I’m less interested in pockets than in the way you look. And Jamie, you look amazing.”
I turn back around to face my reflection, and I have to agree. My summer tan makes the white dress look even more vibrant, and there’s something about the shape of it that flatters me, showing off all my curves to just the right effect.
Right now, my hair is in a very messy ponytail, but I can imagine it piled upon my head. I’ll wear minimal makeup, just a light gloss of mascara and blood-red lipstick.
Yeah, I think, I want this dress. I want to be on Ryan’s arm in this dress.
“I love it,” I tell him.
He stands and moves behind me. I expect him to touch me, but he doesn’t. But he is standing so close that I can feel his heat, his presence, and I pull it close around me, drawing in the thought of him. Feeling safe. And, yes, feeling loved.
When I meet his eyes in the mirror, my smile is tentative, even a little shy. And even so, the moment is perfect. “Thank you,” I say.
“For the dress?”
“For everything.”
Chapter Nine
Ryan carries the garment bag as we move across the Starfire lobby to the guest elevators.
“Remind me to get a picture of me in the dress,” I say. “I want to e-mail it to my mom. She’d absolutely love it. Although Daddy would love it more. On her,” I add, glancing sideways at him. “He loves to dress my mom up and take her out.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Almost thirty years. I’m an only, which isn’t surprising.” I say the last without thinking and immediately regret it.
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. I don’t really want to get into it, and yet at the same time, I like talking to Ryan. He understands so much even without me speaking. And while I adore my parents, I also know that they’re constantly under the surface in everything I do.
Nikki gets it, but compared to her life, mine is roses and candy.
I draw in a breath as we wait for the elevator, then lift a shoulder. “It sounds goofy, but they’re so much in love that it scares me sometimes.”
“I’m not following.”
“I told you it sounded silly.” I try to explain what it was like growing up with them. “I was like the third person on a hot date,” I say. “They loved me, don’t get me wrong, but we never felt like a family unit. There was always them. Or maybe them plus me. There was never us.” I shrug again. “Like I said, it sounds stupid and petty.”
“No,” he says gently. “It doesn’t. Your parents are your first conception of love, the first object of your love. You love them wholly and unconditionally, and expect that back. When you don’t get that in return, it colors everything.”
I gape at him, amazed that he understands so completely what it has taken me a lifetime to wrap my head around. And since he understands, I tell him the rest. “The thing is, my mom used to want to go to law school. And my dad loved to paint. But neither one does that anymore. My dad didn’t want my mom to be away so much, so she never pursued her degree. And Mom doesn’t give a crap about painting, so he stopped doing it. They’re still deliriously happy together, but they’ve lost something. Part of themselves, I guess.”
I don’t say the next. I don’t tell him that it terrifies me. That I’m afraid that’s what happens when you find the one person that you love in all the world—they draw you into a bubble. A happy bubble, but one that is less vibrant and less colorful than the world you wanted to live in.
Intellectually, I know that isn’t true. I mean, hell, look at Nikki and Damien—she’s pursuing her dream even more now because Damien has encouraged her—but one example from one friend can’t overshadow my fears.