It wasn’t that I couldn’t find anything sensible. There were modest cardigans aplenty to choose from, which I was sure used to belong to equally pleasant grandmas of Mrs. Underwood’s type, but I suppose I needed to go with one streamlined fashion choice and therefore went for tart.
“I just want you to know that I feel mighty uncomfortable about you writing a check to pay for my stuff,” I lied brazenly.
Cruz had money and came from an upper-middle-class home. If there was one thing I didn’t feel for him, it was bad.
“I just want you to know that I couldn’t care less,” he deadpanned.
He first dragged me into Ann Taylor, but couldn’t convince me to try anything on, on the grounds that I didn’t want to look like Margaret Thatcher breaking it to England that they were getting into the Falklands.
Cruz faced the same challenges at the Gap, where the clothes were significantly younger, but somehow also blander.
“I’m going to look as appealing as a tax return,” I choked out.
“Well,” Cruz insisted, “one way or the other, you’re ending today looking like my missionary-loving wife.”
Things took a turn for the better when we entered Anthropologie. Their clothes seemed to have a lot of color and swagger, like the type of outfits you’d see a Hollywood spawn wearing on a coffee run to impress the paparazzi.
I picked three ankle-length sundresses in different patterns and cuts, each one of them more costly than my rent, and watched Cruz’s poker face as he swiped his credit card to pay for them.
I assumed he might be doing that on Wyatt’s order, or even Catherine Costello’s, to try to reform me into something digestible for human consumption.
This whole day made me feel super prickly, but I still went with it. Unfortunately, I had no say in this, since I had lost a bet.
Then there was Trinity and my parents’ wrath to think about. And the fact Bear deserved a mother who didn’t look like she practiced the most ancient profession in the world.
Also, privately, I could admit I really, really liked the Anthropologie dresses.
“I think I’m starting to get a feel of what you’re into,” Cruz said when we got out of the store, which by the way, smelled like a new car and someone’s upscale bathroom.
I ignored his observation. I already felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman without being told I was on the cusp of self-discovery and inner transformation.
Next, we went to Free People, where I grabbed a few pairs of pants and some casual shirts and jackets. Then we went to a bohemian boutique, something small and not too pricey, and Cruz splurged on two pairs of sandals for me—both orthopedic but surprisingly not hideous—and a little purse that didn’t look like a tie-dyed squirrel.
I didn’t thank him one time during the entire shopping trip, careful to remind him that it was his idea, not mine.
Finally, around two in the afternoon, when I was ready for my lunch (more like in danger of eating my own arm), he stopped in front of Prada.
He jerked his chin inside. “Ladies first.”
“Are you crazy?” I glared at him. “I’m not really going to let you buy me anything from there.”
I knew I’d joked about it the other day, but I also joked about having Benicio del Toro’s babies, and I sure as heck was closed for business.
“It’s an outlet.”
“It’s outrageous,” I countered. “I don’t care how much money someone has, a five hundred dollar scarf is excessive.”
“Quality costs.”
“Say that to my Kmart shoes. They’ve been servin’ me well for three years and counting. Even when I work double shifts.” I was surprised my feet didn’t slap my face for lying.
“I try not to converse with inanimate objects as a general rule. Why do you even care? It’s my money. I get to decide what I want to spend it on.”
“Why would you want to spend it on a semi-stranger you don’t even like?”
“This semi-stranger I don’t even like is about to become my family. Besides, I’m a shitty tipper.”
We were blocking the entrance to Prada, but that was all right, because no one but us seemed irrational enough to wander in.
There was also a guard at the entrance. A flipping guard. It made me want to throw up. I would never, ever walk into a store where some people might not feel welcome.
People like my mom.
Or like me, for that matter.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” I thumbed my nose at him, adamant to put up a fight. “I’d hate to be associated with you. You may ruin my reputation.”
“Your reputation’s in the shitter,” he reminded me kindly.
“Yeah, well, maybe it’ll find your kissing technique there, since it seems to be in the same destination. What the hell was that about yesterday?”
Classic aversion.
I was a master of misdirection.
“You enjoyed it,” he said calmly.
“Did not.”
“Did, too.”
Lord, I had.
And not only had I enjoyed it, but the fact that it had been sweet and intimate and not filthy and carnal had completely disarmed me. I still felt my pulse against my lips. Both pairs.
Mental note number one hundred and sixty: Charge. That. Vibrator.
Also, why was Cruz flipping everywhere? I had no privacy whatsoever in this place. In case I needed to, oh, I don’t know, get reacquainted with my dormant libido and touch myself (the “Drunk in Love” by Beyonce way).
“Feed me, Dr. Costello.” I tossed my hair dramatically, adopting an English accent I stole from the Bridgertons. “For I am famished and no longer want to debate that imprudent, fortuitous kiss.”
“Why do you sound like you swallowed an Oxford dictionary?”
We both laughed, then shook our heads, forcing ourselves to look away.
We stopped at a hot dog stand and sampled a few of their sausages. Not one innuendo flew in the air throughout the quick meal. A pleasant surprise, seeing as Weiner jokes were obviously not beneath us.
We did a bit more shopping afterwards, then retired to the room, planning to grab a shower, get dressed to grab an early dinner, and then go to the casino. I’d never been to a casino before, which Cruz said was criminal.
When we got to our room, Mrs. Warren was waiting for us, sans Fred, looking mighty smug as she sipped a colorful cocktail with extra umbrellas.
“Been waitin’ for you.” She grinned around her straw. She held an uncanny resemblance to Ursula the Disney sea witch.
“Let me guess. Lost your butt plugs and immediately thought to check in to see if we stole them,” I muttered, clutching my purse closer to my body instinctively.
Cruz’s head twisted as he flashed me a look full of amusement and murder.
Clap.
I’d forgotten I had company and wasn’t supposed to be my usual rude self.
“Butt what now?” She put her hand to her ear.
I shook my head. “Never mind. Why’re you here, Mrs. Warren, other than the obvious—to bless my life with more happy moments and fond memories?”
We stopped by our door, which she was blocking. She crossed her arms over her ample chest. The other day, when she demanded to get into our room, I’d lost it.
I lost it, because I knew it was exactly the kind of mistake I could make, then remembered that the suitcases were, in fact, placed quite far away from one another.