“We’re definitely going to start running you in the morning. You’re winded.”
“Running me? You make me sound like a horse.” I walk through the door he’s holding open and try to breathe easy. If he only knew why I’m breathing hard. I love the way he’s devouring me with his gaze. Okay, sure, it’s also because I’m ridiculously out of shape, but it’s mostly due to him. “I already told you. I don’t run. I don’t even own a pair of running shoes.”
“Good thing we’re at a mall. I hear they have stores in here. Some may even have shoes.”
“You are not allowed to work on me, dude. That wasn’t part of the deal. Besides, I have to work in the morning.”
“So? I run before work all the time.” When he tries to take my hand, I jerk it away.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Holding your hand.”
“No, you’re not.”
He gives me that puppy dog look, but I cross my arms in front of me and thrust out a hip. He then pushes out his lower lip, making him look about two years old. When he drops to his knees in front of the entire world and begs, I’m so embarrassed I want to die right there.
“Get up.”
“Hold my hand.”
“Ryan, Goddamn it. Get up now.”
He holds out his hand. I take it and pull him to his feet, still so mortified I can’t meet the eyes of any of the people staring at me. I recognize half of them as students at BU, and they’re all laughing at me. Great. By Monday this little stunt will be all over campus. I’ll be known as the girl who had the nerd on his knees in the middle of the mall.
Kill me now.
“If you ever do something that embarrassing again, I will cut you.”
Instead of him taking me seriously, he chuckles. I can’t really take anyone seriously who says they’ll cut someone, either. “You could have just held my hand when I asked.”
“You cannot turn this on me.” Now I really do want to cut him. He squeezes my hand. I refuse to squeeze back. He squeezes it again, this time harder. Still, I remain impervious to his attempts. When he squeezes my hand so hard it cracks knuckles, I squeeze back just as hard. We walk into a store, our hands in death grips, the whole while trying not to crack up.
I glance around, immediately recognizing it. Not sure how we ended up at the Rack but loving that we did. They have some pretty awesome deals on designer everything. It’s a broke college student’s paradise—at least mine. It must be muscle memory that brought me here; I’ve been in this store so many times. “Come on. Let’s get your cool on.”
“Should I be scared?”
“Yes.” I grin and drop his hand to head to the men’s section. I’ve never had the chance to dress a guy before. This is more exciting than shopping after my deadbeat dad sends me my annual sorry-for-abandoning-you-here’s-money-to-make-up-for-it-instead-of-my-love check. “Grab a cart.”
He eventually catches up to me just in time. My arms are full. Ryan will look amazing in just about everything I pull off the rack. I know I should pace myself, but can’t help it. It’s like dressing a real life Ken doll. Thinking back to Kayla’s lecture causes me to pause—for about a second. What’s the harm in playing dress up?
“What the… That’s like two wardrobes.”
“I’m just getting started. Let’s hit the knits.”
“Emma.” He parks the cart in front of me, blocking my path. I already have my arms full again. The look on his face—something between concern and suspicion—slows my actions. I drop the clothes into the cart before facing him. “What’s all this?”
“A new wardrobe.”
“What makes you think I can afford all this?”
Disappointment clings to me, weighing me down. I drop my attention to all the outfits now filling the cart. I rest my hand on the pile. “But, they’re all so beautiful. They deserve a good home. Don’t you want to give them a good home?”
“You’re a nut.” He grins.
My heart lifts. “Does that mean you’ll at least try them on?”
“Only if I get to pick out a couple outfits for you to try on as well.”
“Deal.” I grin, too.
29
{Emma}
We spend the next half an hour winding through the maze of women’s clothing racks. He’s not even checking sizes, instead pulling by color. Red, red, and more red. The guy has a thing for red. I think of my hair and smile.
The cart now overflowing with clothes, we head to the fitting rooms. There’s no one manning the desk. It’s a Friday night, the store is dead, and we’re alone in the back of the store. We grin at each other and push the cart into the fitting room area. It’s empty. We have the entire area to ourselves.
I get to work on sorting the clothes. He tries to help, only getting in my way. I eventually tie him to the cart with a pair of red leggings. There’s no way in hell I’m trying those on anyway. Once I have all the outfits sorted by order of hotness, I give him the first five. He accepts them and inspects, his frown deepening with every change of hangers.
“What’s this?” He holds up a gray cashmere.
“Your study sweater.” It comes out as a question.
“No way.” He rejects the sweater and tosses it into the cart.
I rescue it. “What’s wrong with a study sweater?”
“That’s something my dad would wear. Not me.” He proceeds to toss in the rest of the sweaters, each time punctuating his decision with, “No. No. No.”
“What do you have against sweaters?”
“It’s not the sweaters,” he explains before rejecting a dark dress shirt. “It’s what they stand for.”
I rescue more clothes from the pile and hug them to my chest. “Don’t be so mean. It’s not their fault you have daddy issues.”
He stills and narrows his eyes. “I don’t have daddy issues.”
“Yeah, okay.” I laugh. “So says the guy rejecting every sweater because it somehow makes a statement about the man.” I use air quotes on the last two words to really drive home my point.
“Not the man,” he corrects and tosses another article of clothing into the cart. “Just one specifically.”
Interesting. Definitely some truth in that whole daddy issue comment. I tuck it away for deeper exploration later and hold up the gray cashmere. It matches his eyes so perfectly. “Please? You don’t have to buy it. I just want to see it on you.”
Reluctantly, he swipes it, grumbling about it being a waste of time. He disappears behind a door to change. I take the time to sort through the red, red, and more red outfits he’s tossed into the cart until I find something that doesn’t want to make me slit my wrists if I were forced to wear it in public and step into a fitting room to try it on.
After several minutes I hear the creak of a dressing room door. “Ryan?”
“I look stupid.”
I jump out half-dressed. He grabbed a shirt for me so big I can wear it as a dress. As soon as he spots me, he frowns. I lift my hand. “Clearly, you’ve not grasped the concept of size matters.” He colors hard and spins around to disappear into his fitting room. “Stop! Come on. Let me see how it looks.”
“Already said,” he tosses back, halfway into the room. “It looks stupid.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Come on, Ryan. Give me a little catwalk.”
“Do we really have to do this?” His color borders on purple now. Wow, I didn’t know anyone could get that embarrassed.
“You want to be a player or not?”
Sighing, like this is the worst form of torture, he turns to face me. I blink once. Twice. My breath sneaks out, leaving me struggling to breathe. The sweater doesn’t just match his eyes. It draws the intensity of his gaze to the surface. I can’t not stare. He doesn’t say a word and doesn’t have to. His appearance alone demands my attention. I’m powerless but to stare at his absolute beauty.
It’s perfect. It’s more than perfect. There’s a glow surrounding him, it’s that perfect
. I blink again and shake my head to clear my vision. Finally swallowing to wet my dry throat, I find enough breath to blow out a puff of air. “Looks good.”
He flashes that lopsided grin and rests his hands inside the pockets of his slacks like a runway model. “You likes?”
“Sweet mother of butterscotch,” I mutter.
“Your sayings make no sense.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and it won’t be the last. Whenever I didn’t know how else to describe how I felt, I made shit up. It was something one of the many childhood psychologists taught me after I needed help coping when my dad left. She didn’t last, but her technique did.
I redirect my attention to the beautiful man before me. “You have to get that sweater.”
He made a face and dropped his chin. “I don’t do sweaters.”
“I’d do you in that sweater.” I’m panting and lick my lips. I can’t help it. I’ve never had a primal reaction to an outfit. It’s confusing. It’s happening.
“Yeah?” There goes his lopsided grin. Add that to the effect of the sweater and I’m ready to melt into a puddle. It’s either that or attack him. Since one choice will get us arrested, I go with the safer bet of standing there, practically thinking myself into an orgasm. When he does a full circle, giving me a tease of his backside in those slacks, I whimper. “I guess it doesn’t suck.”
“Oh my God.” I’m back to panting. “It so doesn’t suck.”
“I definitely like your reaction.”
I drop my gaze to the giant shirt hanging off my shoulders. Suddenly driven by the need to draw the same visceral reaction from him, I grab a bodycon off the discard rack. It’s nothing I’d normally wear, but that’s the point. He hates his outfit, yet looks like the over-confident, mysteriously misunderstood bazillionaire in all the movies.
I hold up the dress. “I dare you to not react to this.” I change quickly and examine myself in the mirror, pulling it down, pulling it up, and finally pulling it off. No way am I wearing this thing. It shows every single flaw. Besides, redheads can’t wear red. It’s like red overload.
“I’m waiting.”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “False alarm.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not wearing that dress.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Smiling, I take in his words. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong with me. It’s the dress that has the issue, not me. “It’s…” I can’t think of any other word and blurt out, “flawed.” Just like me. I wear clothes that cover my flaws, not show them off.
“Can I see?”
“I already took it off.”
“Can you put it back on?”
I blow out a breath and stare at the sock dress, now my enemy, in a pile on the fitting room floor. I made him show me the sweater. It’s only fair I show him the bodycon. With another sigh, I scoop the thin fabric off the floor and shimmy into it. I straighten out the wrinkles and turn sideways. It’s not going to get any better. One final sigh and I open the door.
As soon as I step out, I suck in a breath to start in on the excuses as to why it looks so bad.
“Oh, my God. Emma. You…” He licks his lips as color slaps his cheeks. He sways—literally sways—and grabs the wall to hold himself up. His mouth falls open as he stares. He doesn’t even blink. He just stares. Every inch of me warms. “I… You… Wow.”
Back to the stuttering. This time, I don’t mind. I pad to the three-way mirror and study my reflection. I turn this way and that. Maybe red doesn’t looks so bad on a ginger. I won’t be on a runway anytime soon, but I’ve seen worse. I’ve worn worse. “You don’t think it looks like I’m wearing a giant sock?”
“You’re amazing. Stunning. Gorgeous. You’re everything.”
I face him and drop my jaw. No one’s ever said that to me before. I want him to say it again. “I’m what?”
He pushes off the wall, approaches and turns us to face the mirror together. I’m in awe. He’s in the gray sweater and a pair of dark slacks. I’m in a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. We look like a power couple. A little lipstick to match the dress, my fuck-me pumps, and I’d totally pull it off. He doesn’t have to change a thing. Not one damn thing. We’re ready for a party with the president, we look so good.
“It’s twenty years from now,” he says in a distant, dreamy voice. His tone pulls me into the story. “We’re at a party.”
“In your name.” I loop my arm in his and hold my head high. “You’ve just patented another bazillion dollar invention. I came up with the idea, of course. You just perfected it.”
“Bazillion?” He looks at me. “That’s not a real thing.” I look at him right back. He nods and returns his attention to our reflection. “Let’s make it a centillion.” He looks at me again. “That’s more.”
“I will cut you,” I whisper. We laugh before resuming our serious façade as we focus on our fantasy. “It’s one hell of an invention.” We both stare into the mirror. “We’re at the White House. Both our families are there.” He tenses. I barely notice as I lose myself in the dream. I no longer see myself in the mirror. I now see the scene. I announce it as it plays out. I’m there in the room. I smell the catered food, the mixes of expensive perfumes wafting in the air. I hear the stringed quartet playing in the corner. I love it all. I long for it all.
“My dad smiles at me,” he says with a grin. “Finally, he’s proud of me.”
The pain of knowing my dad would rather run off and start over than stick around blinds me. The scene blurs and I swallow thickly. “Mine doesn’t show.” I blink, sending hot tears bleeding down my cheeks. I clear my throat and retreat. I want out of this dress, out of this dream.
Ryan pulls me back by wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me to him, prom picture style. “But I’m there. I haven’t left your side in twenty years.”
I can’t control my breathing as my emotions spill over. It’s all too much. I’m sucking in breath after breath and I fight to regain my composure. Why would I care that my dad is a no show? I’m used to it. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less knowing my future doesn’t include him in it.
Ryan holds me closer and says nothing. He just holds me. God, I feel so stupid. I’m crying over a stupid daydream. I want to escape, bury my head until my reality is replaced with one where a father doesn’t leave his family in search of something better.
Dropping my head, I collapse against him, exhausted for pretending it doesn’t matter. It does, damn it. No matter how old I get, a little girl needs her daddy. “I’m sorry.”
He turns me to face him. “For having a heart?”
“For ruining the fantasy.”
His grin, the twinkle in his eyes, holds me prisoner. “You didn’t ruin it. You made it. When I’m gray and all wrinkled, you’ll look exactly as you do right now. I’ll always picture this moment when I think of you.”
Oh, sweet loving Lord. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss him right now. I lean in. He does the same. When our lips touch, a sob escapes. He doesn’t pull back, instead swallowing my cry. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeper.
“I’ll always picture this moment,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re my happy place, Emma.”
I sob again. Damn him. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing much for makeup. What little I am wearing is now streaming down my cheeks. “Why are you so nice?”
“Because you deserve nice.” He kisses my nose before staring into my eyes. I stare back. We’re about to have another moment when an employee walks in and skids to a stop.
“Can I help you?”
Ryan and I both jump back at least a foot. He speaks. “I’ll take the sweater.” He then captures my gaze and adds, “And she’ll take the dress.”
30
{Emma}
“I don’t know when I’ll ever wear it.” I shake my head. I still can’t believe I said yes to the dress. We walk out of the store a
nd stroll through the mall. It’s just as dead inside the stores on a Friday as it is outside the stores.
“Wear it to the DASH.”
I look at Ryan and nod. “I’ll think about it. But, uh… Don’t wear the sweater.” It makes him look too good. I appreciate it. Those at the DASH will not.
“I don’t plan to. Ever.”
I slow and raise my hand. “Hold the phone. You bought something you never intend to wear?”
He challenges me with a look. “You don’t have a single thing in your closet that’s never been worn?”
I refuse to answer and instead move on. He takes his time as we pass an electronics store. Typical nerd. Electronics stores are like homing devices. I grab his hand and drag him away before he goes into debt buying something he’ll use once.
“Wait, but—”
“You don’t need it,” I cut him off.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Whatever it is, you don’t need it.” God, I sound just like my mom.
“HP?” Nancy the TA Nazi appears out of nowhere, her hungry gaze lapping at Ryan. She tosses a bored look my way before returning one hundred percent of her attention to him.
“It’s Ryan,” he corrects her and loosens his grip on my hand. The blood rushes to my fingers and they tingle. Still, I don’t let go, staking my claim. It may be a fake relationship, but he’s my boyfriend for another two weeks. She has no right to look at him like she’s got a chance. The bitch.
“Oh, that’s right.” This time she gives me a cold smile. “You’ve renamed him. And forced him into contacts. And changed his hair. Let me guess. You’re at the mall to change something else about him. Too bad changing him won’t fix you.”
“Thanks for your insightful, albeit bullshit, analysis.” I jerk Ryan’s hand and pull him away from Nancy. Her words cut me like sharp little daggers, slicing into my heart. I don’t want to believe her, but as her words replay in my head, the more they sink in. Changing Ryan won’t change me. I’m an absolute screw up, destined to blow any relationship I have. It’s why I prefer to keep everyone at a distance. It’s why my dad left. And I’m just like my mom. She goes through boyfriends like they’re Girl Scout cookies.
Reluctant Hero (TREX Rookies Book 1) Page 21
