Page 17 of Blindsided
“Um, a six and a half?” I reply with a frown.
“Perfect,” Mac says and shoves a shoebox under the curtain.
“Dear God, please don’t let me kill this man today,” I state out loud and continue to wrestle the dress down over my body.
I slide the fabric into place and cringe over how formfitting it is before I even have the zipper pulled up. It’s a simple shimmery black dress, but it has stringy straps that crisscross over my chest, and the hem cuts well above my knees. It isn’t my style at all, and I hate my friend for bringing me here.
“Do you have the shoes on yet?” Mac asks, and it’s like he’s in the damn room with me because his voice is so close. “You’re taking ages.”
“Have patience, you pushy ox!” I snap and angrily drop down on the bench to put the gorgeous booties on. I slide them on, and my purple painted toes peek out the front.
I’m just standing up when light bursts through the open curtain as my giant friend comes barrelling in. “Christ, woman, are you sewing the damn dress on your body?”
I hold the back of my dress together in a vain attempt at some modesty. “I’d like to see how fast you could get a dress and heels on, you big bully. I can’t even zip this one, so you might as well send that sales assistant out to find me a bigger size with more bolts of fabric to cover my girth.”
“Turn around,” he demands and twirls his fingers to force me to face the mirror as he steps up behind me and struggles with the zipper.
“See? It’s too tight,” I whine, feeling slightly mortified.
“It’s supposed to be tight,” he murmurs, and his warm breath sends goosebumps down my bare arms.
I glance at the pair of us in the mirror. Even when I’m wearing heels, Mac towers over me, making me feel surprisingly petite. I’ve never dated a bloke who made me feel small. Perhaps I should start. My eyes move from him just as he gets the zipper all the way up, and the reflection staring back at me is surprising.
The dress is more fitted than a lot of the clothes I buy, and my legs actually don’t look too bad when I’m wearing heels. I thought I knew how to dress my body type, but I honestly never would have picked this gown out on my own, and it doesn’t look half bad.
“Well,” Mac states, stepping back and eyeing me in the mirror. “What do you think?”
I shrug. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“Aye, sure…” Mac says, silently encouraging me to continue.
“The fabric is very luxurious.”
He nods in agreement.
“The bodice seams pull me in perfectly. The shoes are a nice touch.”
He harrumphs under his breath, and I swivel to face him. “What? What am I saying that’s so wrong? I’m telling you I like the dress and shoes. What more do you want?”
“I want you to remark about howyoulook in them,” he snaps and shoves his hair back off his forehead. “Remark on your own body. Your own features. If you want to be able to form complete sentences with your coffee shop lad, you need to be able to form a complete sentence about yourself first.”
Mac rushes into my space, grabs me by my shoulders, and turns me to face the mirror again. “See how nice your hair looks draped over your bare shoulders. Your skin, freckles included, is striking, aye?” His hands slide down my arms. “The creamy colour of your skin is attractive and lush. Sensual when exposed.”
His hands slip around to cup my waist, and my ears burst into flames.
“Now, see how this dress shows off your shape? It doesn’t hide your tits, which is good because you have some damn nice tits on you, Cookie. You’d do well to see them as a virtue rather than a fault.”
“And your legs,” he says, and my insides clench when his hands slide from my waist to my hips and then down the outsides of my thighs, causing a riot of goosebumps to erupt over my skin. “They’re fucking bonnie, and any lad would be right lucky to have them wrapped around him.”
His gaze lifts from my legs to my flabbergasted eyes, and his heated look makes my nipples tighten. “Your size and your shape are bonnie, and you don’t need to trip over your words in front of a guy you fancy because you should never doubt how beautifulyouare.” He swallows a seemingly uncomfortable lump in his throat, and adds, “But even if I can’t cure you of this warped view you have about your body, you need to remember you’re funny, and smart, and talented, with loads of other qualities that make the fact that you’re drop-dead gorgeous a really nice perk. Any man would be lucky to talk to you.”
Mac finishes his rant and stares fiercely into my eyes without an ounce of humour in his expression. Both of our chests rise and fall with the intensity of this exchange, and I feel all the oxygen being sucked out of the small space. My eyes flick to Mac’s lips for only a moment, but that one shift in attention breaks the spell we’re both under, and he steps back, pulling the curtain open.
“Ring it all up,” Mac says to the sales lady who’s walking into the dressing area with a pile of clothes over her arm. “I’m buying.”
Mac exits quickly, and I find myself gasping for air as everything he said sinks in. I then realise with great surprise that my best friend just took my breath away.
Going into work on Monday is nerve-wracking because I didn’t see Mac again this weekend after our little shopping excursion. It’s kind of strange because he usually comes over to watch Netflix on Sunday nights. But his texts seemed like he was busy with something, so I let it go.
