Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
I glance down at my black jeans, Converse, and plain green T-shirt and then over to Samantha, who’s wearing leopard print trousers, a black V-neck blouse that shows a bit of cleavage, and red peep-toe shoes.
“Hey, do you have something going on today?” I ask, realizing she looks dressed for more than a day of shopping. I hope I’m not interrupting her day, but a sizable portion of my mind is also thinking that maybe I can still get out of this expedition and just wear the black dress. “If you have a date, we can skip this.” I’m trying to be a good friend, but so is she.
Samantha and I met when she came to the museum for her Art 101 class, and she basically adopted me as her friend by force, for which I will forever be grateful. After double majoring in Psychology and Biology, she’s now well into her graduate program specializing in sex therapy and likes to make me blush by sharing too much about her studies. Through her, I know way too much about kinks for someone who doesn’t know if I even like vanilla. All jokes aside, she takes her schoolwork very seriously, saying she wants to help people live a full and fulfilling life. She leads a much more exciting life than I do for sure, dating guys of every type, which she says gives her ‘stimulating intel’ for the future. I wonder who she’s seeing today.
“Not till later. You want to come?”
“Eek!” I exclaim. “No, no, no.”
“Consent is key,” Samantha agrees sagely.
“What if I don’t consent to going into the store and trying on dresses that aren’t going to fit anyway?” I’m exposing a bit of my own insecurity with the question. Places like this store don’t dress people like me—short, curvy, and plain. They’re for people like Samantha, who truly wakes up looking like a goddess.
Samantha opens the door and nearly shoves me inside. “Nice try, but this is your best option. Let’s go.”
I stumble over my own feet and right into the saleswoman inside, who I think has been watching me try to talk my way out of this.
“Ladies.” Not exactly a friendly greeting, but before I know it, Samantha is explaining to her what I need.
“A fancy dinner?” the saleswoman repeats. She’s staring at me as though my version of ‘fancy’ and hers couldn’t possibly be the same thing. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
She gives me a shrewd look, and I feel like she’s taking my measurements as accurately as if she had a tape measure choking my curves. But despite her words, she seems less than confident about fitting me.
Now that Samantha’s gotten me in here, I’m committed to this, and I stand up as straight as I can, still only reaching the lithe blonde’s chest. “Can we skip the whole Pretty Woman moment? I have a black Amex card, courtesy of my dinner date, so if you can find something here . . .” I trail off and look around doubtfully to throw out the challenge, “I would appreciate it. Otherwise, I’m sure Samantha can find somewhere else willing to take my money.”
The saleswoman takes the rebuke congenially, her customer service mask never slipping. “No need for that. I’ll pull you some options if you’d like to look around.”
Samantha claps her hands giddily. “Ooh, the claws are out! Let’s get this party started! Bring the champagne too, Brenda.”
“I’ll do that first. I know how you are, Samantha,” she teases with a wink, seeming much friendlier and more helpful now.
When she disappears, Sam starts shopping in force. Walking to the nearest rack, she begins flipping through the dresses. “First off, good job standing up for yourself with Brenda.”
The compliment is appreciated. Sam knows that on the pages of Alphena, I can do or say anything, but in real life, it’s another matter altogether. One I’m working on. But she’s not done. “Second, you need something that’ll knock Carter on his ass.”
“What? No, I don’t,” I warn. “I need something appropriate for dinner. That’s it. Carter has nothing to do with it.”
“Your husband has nothing to do with it?” Samantha taunts.
Husband.
My fake husband, Carter Harrington, my brother’s best friend.
This is nothing like me. I don’t do wild, outlandish things. I’m boring as hell, disappearing into a world of my own creation with Alphena for days or weeks on end.
Panic shoots through me. “Oh, my God!”
Brenda pops up like a groundhog from a rack across the room. “Everything okay, ladies?”
Samantha waves her off. “Yeah, we’re good. She just realized that she’s gonna need to shave her kitty cat before dinner.”
Brenda blinks, clearly shocked but fighting to keeping a neutral face. “I could have the drugstore deliver . . . uhm, supplies?”
“You’re a doll, but no need. The dinner is tomorrow. She’ll take care of things tonight.”