Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Which is what I’m looking at as I’m thinking this through. Her in those training clothes.
“Is that what you’re wearing, Irina?”
Irina looks down at herself—“What?”—then back up at me. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing.”
She has no idea how to be anything else other than Maart’s little fighter.
And it kinda pisses me off that he’s got such a hold on her.
“We’re going to dinner. Don’t you wanna change out of your gym clothes?” It comes out before I realize that’s all she brought with her. And now she’s got a look on her face—which is slightly flushed—and I can almost hear the questions running through her head.
But she, unlike me, can toss self-doubt aside almost on instinct. “I’m fine. This is fine. It’s LMR Eats. I kinda work there. And no one dresses up.”
“Do you own anything else?” I nod my head to indicate her outfit. “At home, I mean. Do you own any dresses?”
“I do. Two of them.”
“Should we go get one?”
She huffs. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”
“If we’re going on a date, ya need to wear a dress.”
“No, I don’t.”
She snarls these words at me and I almost laugh. “Irina. I’m not asking you to sell me your firstborn son. Why are you making a big deal about changing your clothes? Just put on something nicer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with training shorts and a tank top. I don’t want to go all the way home to change my clothes. It’s dumb.”
“Well, I’m gonna change. Be right back.”
She is still protesting as I go into my bedroom and choose a pair of tan chinos, a white button-down, and a pair of old-school Vans. When I come back out, I think Irina is standing in the exact same spot where I left her.
Her gaze lands on me, lingers for a moment, then she tips her chin up. Like my new look is some kind of challenge. “You look nice.”
I just shove my wallet in my pocket and point to the door. “Let’s go.”
“I thought you wanted me to change?”
“Did you bring a dress with you?”
“You already know I didn’t.”
“Can you magically pull one out of your ass?”
She laughs. “No.”
“Then we have to buy one, don’t we? There’s a shop downstairs. Hurry up. I’m getting hungry.”
I am starting to get a sense of her now. Her patterns and mannerisms. And I know that she would like nothing more than to spend the next five minutes ruminating over what I just said. So I open the door, step aside, and invite her to walk through it.
She lets out a breath, but does as she’s told.
We take the stairs down to the main lobby, then out to the little shops that line the lowest level of the building on the street side. Irina follows me into a small boutique tucked between Starbucks and a bagel place and I point. “Pick something.”
She makes a face. “This isn’t really my kind of place.”
“Why not?”
“It’s… fancy.”
“You’re buying a dress, Irina. This place has dresses. Pick one out, put it on, and let’s go eat.”
She sighs, but looks around, then wanders off without continuing the argument.
I will admit this store does not have a lot of choices. Which means it’s high-end and snobby. I check the tag on the nearest dress and it’s nearly five hundred dollars.
I almost reconsider and give in to the idea that eating dinner out in gym clothes is fine, but fuck it. I paid that much for the fuckin’ poster of her.
I lean against the door, arms folded, just watching her shop. The girl who runs the cash register has come over and they are chattin’ now. A dress is chosen, then another, then another. Irina disappears into a dressing room at the back and comes out wearing a dress that goes all the way down to her fuckin’ feet.
I walk over there, shaking my head. “Not that one.”
“Why not?”
“Irina, it’s summer in South Beach. Above the knee at least.”
The cash register girl is smirking at me, eyes lingering on my body a lot longer than Irina’s did. But I ignore her. “Try the other one.”
Irina huffs, but turns and goes back into the little room, pulling the curtain closed behind her. A few minutes later, she reappears.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
She looks down. “What’s wrong with this one?”
It’s shorter than the last one. I can almost see her knees. But it’s asymmetrical. And I don’t like it. “Next.”
She goes back in and a few minutes later she appears in a plain white minidress with thin straps and a ruffle on the hem. “How about this, Your Highness?”
I smile—“Better”—then turn to the waiting clerk. “We’ll take it. She’s wearing it out. Pack up her other clothes and send them to the lobby. Have the desk hold them for 990.”