But no. She shouldn’t move back to Peach Pit. It’s just all wrong for her. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. And why is she fighting so hard for this job if she’s just planning on leaving anyway?
“Mom! You don’t need to bring that up every single conversation. And if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I don’t want to be late to my hell-date. Love you. Also, stop stalking me and seek professional help.” She hangs up and turns around, and lets out a little squeak when she sees me.
“Warts?” I challenge her. “Hell-date?”
"You’re five minutes early! And how are you even here? I never heard you coming.” She looks at me suspiciously. “Do you have a cloak of invisibility? No, if you were invisible I’d still be able to hear you. You’re just super sneaky. Also, that was my mom I was talking to, and she’s trying to marry me off. Believe me, I was doing you a favor. If she thought I was on a date with an eligible, good-looking man, she'd fly to New York and try to micromanage us down the aisle."
"So I'm good-looking and eligible?" I may be gloating just a little.
She narrows her eyes at me. "I mean, in the relative scheme of things. I’ve seen worse. At the movies. Never mind, that was Nightmare on Elm Street I was thinking of.” She looks me up and down. It’s a white-tie event, so I’ve busted out the tailcoat, top hat, and a red carnation boutonnière. My shoes are so shiny you could use them as a shaving mirror. “Although I have to admit, you clean up nicely.”
I let my gaze rove over her. She’s wearing a body-skimming gown the color of pink rosebuds, with a high slit up the thigh and illusion lace sleeves. Her hair is swept up in a chignon and secured with mother-of-pearl decorative combs. "You're not so bad yourself. Where did you get that dress from? The couture department? I don’t recognize the designer.”
"Oh, no.” She shakes her head as she snatches up a small beaded purse from her desk. “It's upcycled, pieced together from consignment store dresses. Clarice and Isabella made it for me this week. I haven’t had time.” She shoots me a narrow-eyed look of accusation as she says that.
"They’re very talented. Why didn't you just pick one up from the store, though?"
She looks startled. “I wouldn’t have presumed.”
Interesting. I’m learning a lot about Winona Jeffers. She could easily have scored a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, for free, then sold it online after our date for a pretty penny – but she didn’t want to take advantage. She also turned down a huge bribe from me, as well as accomplishing something that no one besides my father has ever done. She made me feel guilty for being an asshole.
“Next time, pick a dress from the store. I insist.”
“You don’t like it?” Her hands flutter nervously over her dress, and her expression of dismay tugs at the place where a normal man would have a heart.
If I started telling her what I really think, I’d say words that I could never take back. They’d gush from me like a waterfall, spilling out all my secrets. Instead I answer her with a frown. “I told you that you looked stunning, and I meant it. It’s just that if I’m forcing you to endure my presence for the evening, you might as well get something out of it. Also, it never hurts to have our wares showcased on an attractive model.”
Her eyes go saucer-wide. “Did you just…”
My heart thumps in my chest. I want to pull her up against me and tell her how beautiful she is. I want her to know she should never doubt herself.
I say gruffly, “Yes, I gave you a compliment. Don’t get used to it.”
“Hmph.” But her rosy lips curl up in a small, amused smile. “I would never.”
Compliments must be earned, and they so rarely are. My father’s voice rings in my ears. I never question my father, but…after all, he was born in 1960. He was very old school. He used to joke about Alice going to college to get her “Mrs.” Degree. Drove her crazy. She’d stomp out of the room.
I feel a rare stab of anger at him when I think of that. I know my father thought he was being funny, but he should have seen how it upset her. Okay, so maybe