Page 38 of Text Me Baby One More Time

“I’ve told you ten times: try this stack on and we’ll be good to go.”

“I amnotletting you pick my dress for me. It’s bad enough I’m letting you pay for it.”

“You’re seriously still upset I’m buying you thousands of dollars’ worth of very fancy dresses that you get to keepforever?”

“Yes,” I say stubbornly.

“You can barely say that with a straight face.” He points to the mound of fabric beside him. “Try them and we can leave.”

“And if I hate them? Then what?”

He sighs. “Then we can still leave.”

I march over to him, snatch the dresses up, and tuck myself away in the dressing room for the millionth time this afternoon.

I shoot my boss another quick text, letting him know I’ll be even later than expected, and then I send my intern one too, apologizing for abandoning her with the mountain of work I have to do.

Neither of them give a shit because I’m withtheShepard Clark.

Ugh. Spare me.

I somehow manage to wrangle the zipper down—I amnotinviting Shep in here to help—and pull the first dress off the hanger.

It’s black and boring and I really don’t want to try it on.

Surprise overcomes me when I slide the dress on and glance at my reflection in the mirror. It fits like a glove, accentuating my curves in ways I didn’t know a garment could for people who aren’t Blake Lively or Eva Mendes.

It’s conservative with no cleavage showing and long sleeves, so there’s not much that screamssexyuntil you come to the diamond-shaped cutout on each hip. It’s enough to make the dress suggestive, but not enough to take away from the classy look.

As much as I hate to admit it, Shep was right. Thisisthe perfect dress.

“I’d do me,” I say with a shrug.

“I’d do you too. Now get out here and show me how right I was.”

Sighing, I push open the curtain and step out.

Shep sits forward. He moves his eyes over me in a painfully slow perusal.

Hunger—it’s there in his gaze as he pushes up from the chair and stalks toward me with purposeful strides. My heart rate is soaring higher and higher with each step, so loud I’m certain he can hear it as he comes near.

He doesn’t stop until he’s just a few inches from me.

Cinnamon. He smells like cinnamon. I fucking love cinnamon.

“It’s my gum,” he says, and I realize I’ve said it out loud.

Shit.

I don’t realize he’s reached out to me until his fingertips graze softly over my exposed hip, the touch causing me to jump.

“Does it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“The bruise—does it hurt? I saw you hit your hip on the corner of your desk when you attacked me.”

I glance down at where his fingers are resting against my skin, and for the first time, I notice there’s a purple mark forming.

---