He takes me to a boutique called Steph’s in the Heights, a stylish part of the city. There are no racks of clothing. Only a bevy of gorgeous women, smiling, pensive, and sly. It takes me a minute to understand that they’re like mannequins showing off the clothes in various poses. A woman in all black shows us to the back.
“Hello, my love,” a woman says, giving Sutton a kiss on both cheeks. “Tell me you’re doing well and that you’ve forgotten all about that traitor.”
“Hello, Steph. I heard that traitor dropped a small fortune here last week.”
A sniff. “Yes, but I didn’t even tell her that the navy jumper looked pedestrian.”
He grins. “Is it because you care about me?”
“Yes, you foolish cowboy. Now tell me what you’ve brought me.”
“This is Ashleigh. She needs a dress.”
“She needs a makeover and a donut. Look how skinny. Don’t starve yourself for the men,” she tells me. “It’s never worth it.”
“There will be time for donuts later. We’re in a rush.”
She gasps. “The wedding. It’s today.”
“That’s right.”
“You give me no time. None. What are you, a size two?” Her sentences run together giving me no room to answer. “Never mind. I’ll start bringing dresses. We can’t waste a single moment, not with men who wait until the last minute.”
I stand on a small platform while Sutton lounges on a sofa. Dresses are held under my chin while Steph makes pronouncements. This color looks like puke. Here, this one, it’s like it was made for her. No, I despise it. Throw it away. Why do we have this dress?
“Perfect,” she exclaims over a particular dress with pale blue ruched fabric. “Now, take off these terrible clothes so we can try this one.”
She doesn’t move from standing next to me. There don’t seem to be any dressing rooms, only walls covered in thick crown molding. “Where should I change?”
“Right here,” she says, exasperated. “Come on. Undress. No need to be modest with Steph. Or with Sutton. Sutton appreciates a woman’s body, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Sutton says from the sofa, his voice sardonic.
“Oh, but I don’t—” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. I’m standing on a pedestal. Is this what rich people do, undress on pedestals? God. And even worse, I’m not wearing a bra or underwear. I struggle for the words. “I don’t have any—Under here, there isn’t—I’d be naked.”
Neither of them looks particularly shocked by my confession. Sutton isn’t shocked because he undressed me last night. He did more than undress me. He lifted my skirt on the sofa and licked between my legs. From the heated look in his bright blue eyes, he’s remembering the same thing.
“This is better,” Steph says. “We’ll need a strapless bra for this dress. And we’ll find you silk panties. Stockings and garters. The whole ensemble will be new.”
The whole ensemble will be new. How easy that sounds. How alluring.
I wonder if I’d feel new, too.
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s too much money. We only need a dress for the wedding.”
Sutton relents. “Let her use a dressing room, if it helps her feel better.”
The expression on Steph’s face is uncompromising. It’s impossible to tell how old she is. She has a commanding air and sophisticated clothes—a short dress with high, almost military sleeves. But her face is unlined and softly pretty. Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “This wedding,” she tells me softly. “Everyone will be looking at Sutton. Everyone will be looking at who he brings. Don’t you want to look your best?”
Because they’ll be judging him. I may only be a prostitute, but he’s right. They don’t have to know that. I can look beautiful and wealthy—like them. “Okay,” I say, reaching for the hem of my halter top.
The fabric falls to the floor, and then I’m topless in front of Sutton and a stranger. My nipples turn tight under their gazes, one heated, one assessing. Next I push down my black mini skirt. I step out of my heels, too. With the outside of my foot I push the whole thing off the pedestal.
Then it’s just me standing there, completely naked—afraid and ashamed and also exhilarated. Those clothes are the only thing that marks me as living on the street. Without them I could be anyone. I could be someone who’s never had rough, cruel hands on her. Someone who belongs by Sutton’s side.
Steph lifts the pale blue dress and it falls down my body. As soon as it touches my thighs, she says, “No, definitely. All wrong. The blue matches Sutton’s eyes, and that’s the only excuse I can make. I was distracted by them.” She gazes at me, sly. “Aren’t his eyes distracting?”
“Yes,” I admit, because I’m staring into them right now.
He’s watching my body with lazy possession, relaxed on the sofa. It’s the kind of relaxed a wild animal would have, coiled in rare repose. His gaze shows all the heat and sensual intent.
Steph holds up another dress to my naked body. “No no no.”
And then I’m revealed again. It’s an endless covering and reveal, an endless dressing and undressing. Every single time Sutton turns hotter, until it doesn’t seem possible that he should feel more turned on. It must be contagious because my own skin starts feeling hot and itchy.
“This is the perfect one,” Steph says when she holds up a gold slinky thing.
It’s the same thing she says about every one I’ve tried on. Despite the glittery sheen, the fabric is soft against my heated skin. It’s like a caress. Instead of shouting no no no, Steph turns me gently to face away from Sutton—until I’m looking at a large set of mirrors.
The reflection takes my breath away. The gold dress falls perfectly on my body, highlighting curves in a way that feels elemental. My hair looks tousled from so many dresses going over it. The gold brings out natural champagne strands. I look like someone else entirely. A different species than the scared, hungry girl who lives in a sugar factory. I don’t look anything like me.
“I love it,” I breathe.
Triumph makes Steph look like a general having won a war.
In the mirror, Sutton’s expression is arrested—as if I’ve taken him by surprise. “Yes,” he mutters, almost to himself. “She looks incredible. Jesus. No one will recognize her like that.”
My heart sinks, because of course they won’t.
And of course he worried about that.
Chapter Ten
Sutton
St. Martins is the oldest church in Tanglewood. It’s been through a plague and a flood and a fire—all the Biblical threats. And here it stands in modern, hand-bricked glory. Light shines in every hue through the stained glass windows. Jesus drags his own cross in one of them. He rises from the dead in another.
I wouldn’t have expected Harper to get married in a church. It’s a little traditional for her. She could have gotten married knee-deep on an endangered coral reef or in zero gravity on a private space plane. Maybe she could have painted the church out of thin air. She eschews everything ordinary. Or at least it seemed that way. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought.