Page 45 of Power Play
I groan. “Demure? That’s just code for beige. I don’t know why I can’t wear my jeans, boots and a nice top.”
“It’s code for classy,” Mia says, holding up a navy satin slip dress that looks one wardrobe malfunction away from indecent exposure. “And I think this would make Murphy’s brain short-circuit.”
I snort. “That man short-circuits if I wear lip gloss.”
We’ve hit four shops so far. Mia’s tried to keep us focused, but I’ve also managed to talk her into buying a ridiculously expensive moisturiser, we accidentally matched sunglasses at one point, and I may or may not have gotten side-tracked by a novelty mug that saidWorld’s Okayest Fake Girlfriend.
Accurate.
We step into another boutique, this one quiet and airy, like the sales assistants whisper affirmations to the hangers, and I immediately feel a if I’m being judged by the rugs. Still, Mia spots a forestgreen number that makes me reconsider my aversion to satin, and I promise to try it on in a minute. Right after I finish muttering about the injustice of it all.
“I’m just saying,” I complain as we walk past a wall of glitter and tulle, “if men can show up to these things in a black suit they wear to every wedding, why do I need Spanx, a facial, and two-inch lashes?”
“Because you’re going with Murphy,” Mia says, laughing. “And he’s going to look like a bloody cologne ad straight out of the pages of GQ magazine.”
“I’ve seen him in a suit,” I mutter, recalling the video call from last night. “It should be illegal to look that good in tailoring.”
Mia arches an eyebrow. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You so are.”
I groan. “I hate you.”
“No, you love me. And you love him.”
“Shut your perfect face.” She just smirks and throws another dress into the ‘try or die’ pile I’m apparently building.
Eventually, after three outfits that screamMiss Universe but sad, and one that nearly dislocates my shoulder trying to zip it, I step out in the green satin one. Mia lets out a low whistle.
“Holy hell, Hart. You’re not going to make it out of the foyer before he’s mentally undressing you.”
I give myself a once-over in the mirror. It’s elegant. Fitted. Dangerous in all the right places. I look like the kind of woman who makes grown men rethink their life choices.
“Alright,” I admit. “This might not be completely offensive.”
“That’s glowing praise,” Mia deadpans.
We make the purchase and flee before I bankrupt myself in the shoe section. Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated in a corner of a quiet coffee shop, drinks in hand and shopping bags piled at our feet like war trophies.
Mia sips her chai latte. I glare into the depths of my cappuccino pretending it holds the secrets to the universe, or at least how to fake date without actually catching feelings.
“So,” she says, casually stirring her drink. “Tell me how you’re really feeling about all this.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean the sponsorship dinner? Mild dread. Moderate boob tape. General confusion about the existence of quinoa canapés.”
“No,” she says, smiling gently. “I mean Murphy.”
And just like that, my heart does that annoying thing where it flails a little too loudly in my chest.
I stall. “What about him?”
Mia gives meThe Look. The one that saysDon’t even try to bullshit me, I know when you’re emotionally constipated.
“You’ve been sleeping with him,” she says, not unkindly. “You let him see past your armour. And I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“Like I’m a human buffet item?” I quip, but my voice falters. She doesn’t laugh this time.
