Page 53 of Forced Alpha Bride
I’m so absorbed by my decision, I don’t notice her approach. When she puts a hand on my arm, I actually jump in surprise.
“Need some help?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I admit with a sigh. “I don’t know what to wear.”
“Are all of these tailored to you?”
“I don’t think so. Flint picked them up for me. You know how you said people would want to give me things? Harold’s Tailcoats called and offered me these.” I gesture to the suits. “I don’t even know if they fit.”
“I’ve heard of Harold,” Winnie says. “Krista’s bought gowns from him. He can probably measure your suit by eye at a hundred paces. Which one were you thinking of?”
“Black,” I answer, pointing to the jacket on the end. “And a white shirt, I guess.”
“No,” she answers, shaking her head. “Don’t put pure white under black. It’s too shocking a contrast, and you’ll looklike a waiter. Go for the black jacket, but wear this charcoal shirt.”
“Okay,” I say, raising my eyebrow. “You seem to know more about this than I do.”
“I do,” she laughs. “Trust me. You’d also look damn good with a splash of red, but then you’d clash with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“My gown, my colors. We have to match.”
“Oh,” I reply, confused. “I had no idea.”
“I know,” she says, smiling as she goes back to her things.
While Winnie goes back to the bathroom, I get dressed and comb back my hair. It’s getting just a little too long and keeps falling in my face. I’ll have to get it cut soon because I like to present myself as clean-shaven, neat, and tidy. Grandfather had gray hair to his waist and constant stubble, but he taught me if I want to be taken seriously by the upper-class fucks, I’ve got to walk and talk like them. My mother taught me etiquette at a young age, and it’s the only reason I know how to hold myself with authority and speak formally. I know all of this is only a bare minimum of knowledge. Almost a parody of true class. I’m winging it the whole time.
It might be different with Winnie by my side.
“I’m ready,” I hear Winnie’s voice behind me. “Tell me what you think.”
I turn around to see Winnie standing in the doorway, posing with her arms up and her head tossed back. She’s wearing a pale pink gown of soft, wispy fabric. Wide straps on her shoulders sweep down into a low, heart-shaped neckline that frames her full, round breasts, pushing them up into ripe mounds. The dress fits tightly around her waist and flows looselyover her hips in sweeping folds all the way to the floor. When she does a little flourish, I see that she’s wearing cute, pale pink high heels.
“Well?” she asks, chuckling. She flips her hair over one shoulder, and the long mess of curls drapes almost to her waist.
“You look amazing,” I say, finally finding my voice.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “This is one of my favorite gowns. They say redheads don’t look good in pink, but I think it’s bull.”
“I wholeheartedly concur.”
“Your dark looks would go great with a red shirt, or even just a touch of red on the jacket, but it would clash with the pink.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding as I try to pretend I know what she’s talking about.
“The black and charcoal match me really well, though,” she says, turning in front of the mirror to examine herself from every side. “I think it’s a good image for our first appearance.”
I go over to the mirror and stand beside her. She takes my arm, smiling and posing. I agree that we look good, but I feel like an absolute fool. The nice suit is one thing. Fake smiling and moving with affectation is another.
I’m not prancing around like a trained dog.
“Damon, you look stiff,” Winnie remarks, shoving my waist. “Try to move gracefully.”
“I’ve never been graceful,” I growl.
Winnie grins at me like she knows something I don’t. “Enough procrastinating,” she says. “Let’s go.”
