Page 40 of Royal Charmer
“But—”
“Stop arguing, darling. We’re supposed to be happily engaged.”
He opens the door to the next shop, his hand on my lower back pushing me firmly inside. I’m still flushed with embarrassment and unsure how to deal with the size issue. There must be at least one plus-size woman in Paris, right? I can’t bring myself to discuss it with Lucas, drawing his attention to my body shape. Sure, he appreciates my breasts, all men find them fascinating, but most men seem to prefer more of a stick shape to hold them up. The guards remain stone-faced witnesses in the background, and I force myself not to add in their internal dialogue over this mortifying situation. Yes, I’ve reached mortification levels. If this shop doesn’t work out, I am running back to the hotel, back to my trusty laptop with its genteel Regency world, where dresses are custom made to fit perfectly.
Hell, if this goes worse than the last place, I might run all the way back to Oregon. I don’t care if there’s an ocean in the way.
A saleswoman approaches, a young brunette wearing a stylish asymmetrical white dress that clings to her skinny body. This is never going to work. I take a step back, knocking into the solid form of Hercules. “Sorry!”
He gives a slight incline of his head, but is otherwise silent.
Lucas takes over, speaking to the saleswoman in rapid French. She responds cordially, glancing at my ruby engagement ring before smiling and gesturing for me to follow her.
A small flame of hope gives me the confidence to attempt another try. She produces a red empire waist gown with cute off-the-shoulder cap sleeves that looks promising. I take it to the dressing room and manage to get it on, but there’s just no room to breathe the way it clings to my rib cage.
“Lucas?” I call.
A moment later, he’s speaking through the door. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, but I can’t breathe in it.”
“Let me see.”
I squinch my eyes tight, about to tell himforget it, when he says in a husky voice, “Darling, you could make a sack look good.”
I find myself smiling, even though I know he’s just playing the game. He’s my besotted fiancé and would never utter a harsh word to me.
I open the door.
His gaze rakes me from head to toe before slowly lifting to my eyes. I try not to fidget, waiting for the verdict. I hoped he’d say a quick, “If you like it, I like it,” which is the dialogue I would’ve created for him. And then I would say, “You know, I don’t care for it after all. Let’s just go.” And this whole embarrassing awkward time would mercifully end.
“Never mind,” I blurt.
“I like it,” he says hoarsely.
The hoarseness in his voice makes me feel a little better. It’s a sexy sound of wanting and restraint. “Oh. Well, I do too, but I also like to breathe.” I run my hands down my rib cage. “I have to breathe shallowly. I’d rather not need a fainting couch.”
He looks serious, completely ignoring my attempt to lighten the situation with Regency humor. “I’ll fix it. Give me a minute.”
I watch as he returns to the saleswoman, barking out French like he’s Napoleon himself (but much taller). He. Is. Magnificent.
Next thing I know I’m standing in an open space of the dressing room area in front of a three-way mirror in my regular clothes while the saleswoman measures me just about everywhere you can measure. I meet Lucas’s eyes in the mirror. “Are they tailoring the gown for me?”
“Yes, and it will be delivered to our hotel room this afternoon.”
“Wow. I should always bring you shopping with me.”
He makes a courtly bow. I’m about to laugh at how over the top the gesture is, but he looks so serious when he straightens, his eyes heated and locked on mine in the mirror, that the laugh goes right out of me. Sparks fire over my skin. My God, he hasn’t even touched me. I’m burning up.
By the time we finish our shopping and climb into the waiting limo for our drive to Versailles, something is off with Lucas. He’s tense and quiet. I’d like to think it’s the strain of resisting me, but my mind fills in much worse. He’s tense because he had to deal with the hassle of shopping and tailoring stuff. Or he’s not enjoying the game anymore. Or maybe he doesn’t want to indulge me this weekend doing all my nerdy history things. He’s used to a much faster-paced partying lifestyle. I don’t want him to feel forced into being my besotted fiancé, going shopping, and doing nerdy historic stuff. On the other hand, wasn’t that our deal? I play fiancée for his banker meeting, and he plays fiancé to inspire my story? This ball is the perfect experience to drop into my story. I’m torn between letting him off the hook and demanding he get back to our deal. I can’t take all this quiet tension.
I lean close to whisper to him because Thor is in the back of the limo with us. “Are we still playing the engagement game?”
He speaks under his breath, looking straight ahead. “Do you want to?”
“Yes, but I wonder if you’re enjoying it? You seem tense.”
He remains quiet, tense, and serious.
