Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Her brow furrows as she looks at me. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Fifth Avenue somewhere."
"Why?"
"I guess we're going shopping."
She looks torn between confusion and excitement, like she wants to jump up and down but she has no clue how the hell we can be going shopping when we've been living off of noodles all week. I don't explain, still stewing on my grade, as she crams her paper in her bag. She cuts her eyes at me, frowning as I watch. "I don't know why that man has a hard-on for you. You're a lot better at that crap than me. You should be getting all A's."
I just shrug, having no idea how to respond, as we stride out of the elevator and make our way outside. I notice it then, parked along the curb right in front of the dorm: a sleek black town car with a man leaning against the side of it, waiting. He glances up, pushing away from the car when he sees us. "Miss Reed?"
"Yes."
He smiles politely, opening the door for us to get in. I hesitate, but Melody pushes right past me, climbing in the back seat. I join her, sighing as the driver shuts the door and climbs in up front. Melody is chatting non-stop on the drive, excited, even though she has no idea where we're going or what we're doing.
Hell, I don't know myself.
All I know is I need a dress.
The driver takes us to Fifth Avenue in Midtown West and drops us off in front of an upscale boutique. I stand there along the curb, staring through the glass doors, as the town car pulls away, disappearing into traffic and leaving us there. Melody's wide eyes regard the store with much the same excitement as in the car, but even she seems a little hesitant.
"What now?" she asks.
"I guess we go in."
She shrugs, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the boutique. It's swathed in a soft glow, faint classical music playing. The store is arranged by color and scheme, with sections of different designers, the clothes along the walls while the middle section is sprinkled with furniture like we're in someone's home.
It's not like the stores I'm used to, with racks upon racks crammed together of every size imaginable, mass-produced and distributed to anyone who wants it. These are one-of-a-kinds, where you hold your breath and pick a dress and hope like hell you can squeeze into it.
I pause right inside the door, glancing around, as the saleswoman appears. She struts, poised, eyebrows raised like she's potentially approaching feral animals and she thinks we might bite. I'm about to blurt out that this is a mistake, that I'm most definitely in the wrong place, when she says my name. "Karissa Reed?"
I gape at her. "Yes."
"Mr. Vitale said he would be sending you by this afternoon," she says, giving me what I surmise is her warmest smile, although it still looks quite frigid. "He left instructions, evening attire for you and a dress for your friend… to replace one that was damaged?"
"A damaged dress?" Melody glances at me. "You mean my sweater dress? The black one?"
I nod slowly. "Yeah, we kind of… I mean, he kind of…"
She holds her hands up to stop me. "Enough said."
I laugh nervously, glancing back at the saleswoman as she eyes us, her gaze even icier than just a moment ago. She clears her throat dramatically, waving around the store. "Well, help yourselves to anything in the store. The dressing rooms are through there." She points toward the back. "I'm here to help if you need it."
"Thanks," I mumble as she walks away. I turn to Melody, about to say something—anything—when she lets out a squeal and drops her school bag in the middle of the store, grabbing my hand and yanking me over to a rack of clothes.
She's thrown into fast-forward as she descends upon the store, picking up dresses and holding them up to herself, running to the closest mirror and twirling around. The girl is a shopping machine. I scan some racks, noticing not a single piece has a price tag. "How am I supposed to know how much they cost?"
That icy voice clears nearby. "Mr. Vitale said you're to pick out what you like, not what you think you can have."
"That sounds like him," I mutter, picking up a sleek black dress and surveying it before sticking it back on the rack. I doubt I could squeeze a thigh into the thing.
Melody accumulates a dozen dresses she wants to try on, forcing a few on me along the way. I humor her, trying them on before pushing them aside. They're flashy and revealing, nothing I would be caught dead in. I find a simple black dress in my size and pick it up, heading toward the dressing rooms with it when another catches my eye. It's on a rack of pink and purple dresses, but the color falls somewhere in between, like raspberry.
I walk over to it, running my hand along the material. The gown is soft with an embroidered see-through overlay, giving the illusion of it being strapless but with three-quarter length sleeves. I don't know much about fashion besides that—don't recognize the designer's name or know what it's made of—but it's utterly beautiful.
And it's my size.
I take it into the dressing room, forgetting all about the black dress, and set to work putting on the gown. I struggle zipping it the whole way up in the back and step out of the dressing room wearing it, finding Melody admiring herself in a full-length mirror. She's wearing a black dress that seems to be made of leather and lace, low cut and skin tight. Her gaze catches mine in the mirror and she freezes.
"Can you zip this?" I ask, turning around so my back is to her. As soon as I do, I catch sight of a familiar set of eyes along the street. Naz.
He steps into the boutique. The saleswoman greets him warmly—a hell of a lot warmer than she greeted us—but his eyes are fixed solely on me as Melody zips me up. The dress is snug, tight around my chest, but it's bearable.