17. Kaitlyn
SEVENTEEN
Kaitlyn
I STARE AT THE PRICE TAG ATTACHED TO THE PAIR OF jeans I picked up from a deceptively casual looking display table for a moment, eyes bulged slightly.
$750
The store specializes in western wear so I thought this would be the cheapest option. I guess I thought wrong.
Feeling slightly nauseous, I move to put them back.
As soon as I do, Dakota does what she’s been doing for the past forty-five minutes.
“Nope.” She shakes her head at me while rerouting my hand to push the folded pair of jeans against my chest. “My orders were, if she touches it, she buys it ,” she reminds me, palm flat, holding the pants in place while I wrestle with indecision. This is only our first store and I’ve already spent so much of Went’s money, my stomach hurts.
“I’ve already bought six pair.” I plead my case, silently begging her to have mercy on me.
“Well, now you’ve bought seven.” Giving me a sweet smile, she pulls the jeans out of my lax grip and holds them out to the hovering saleswoman. “Put these on the buy pile.”
“Absolutely.” Ignoring my obvious distress, the woman grabs the jeans from Dakota and speed walks them to the register like she’s afraid I might tackle her for them.
“She works on commission—they all do.” Reaching out, Dakota claps a commiserating hand on my shoulder before offering me a flat, sorry not sorry smile. “So, if you’re expecting one of them to heed your cries for help, you’re out of luck.”
Determined not to touch anything else or indicate in any way that something I see has piqued my interest, I fold my arms over my chest and jam my hands into my armpits like a sullen toddler. “What do you think she thinks is going on here?” I ask quietly while I watch the saleswoman happily fold the pile of jeans and shirts in Dakota’s buy pile into a neat stack, all the while, discreetly checking each price tag so she can do a quick tally of her commission.
“She probably thinks you’re some rich tourist’s mistress, here to spend his money while he golfs and pretends to hunt buffalo,” Dakota tells me bluntly. “The room Went had me book you into is almost five grand a night. Trust me, the second she saw your room key, she started planning her trip to Jamacia.”
Five grand?
A night?
Went is spending five grand a night, just so I can spend even more of his money.
“I think I’m done,” I tell her with a decisive nod. “I’ve got everything?—”
“Bras.” Dakota rolls her eyes and holds up her index finger. “Underwear. Socks. Boots.”
“I have boots,” I say, scowling at her. I can’t argue with the rest of it. I literally left the only home I’ve ever known with nothing more than the clothes on my back and a backpack full of notebooks.
“Okay—a pair of boots that aren’t being held together by horse shit and hope,” Dakota fires back. Before I can get offended, she sighs. “Look, we have an hour before our spa appointment, so?—”
“Spa appointment?” No one ever said anything about a spa appointment.
Dakota narrows her dark brown gaze. “Weren’t you listening when I laid out your room amenities? Spa treatments are complimentary for all of our Mountain King guests and a guest of their choosing. I booked the works for two, the second I hung up with Went.” When I start to protest, she shuts me down. “My brother is paying five grand a night for that room, Sierra .” She’s been ruthlessly pushing me to spend her brother’s money for nearly an hour now and she still hasn’t asked me my real name. “Not taking advantage of the free spa treatments that come with it, and taking me with you, would be a travesty.” When it’s obvious I’m not completely sold, Dakota throws down her ace. “I’m the poor relation,” she tells me with a shrug. “I deserve compensation.”
I remember what Went told me about Damien and Dakota. That his father basically seduced their mother, a struggling sous chef, and no sooner did she marry him and get pregnant, he left her for his mother, the wealthy hotel heiress.
If I can relate to anything, it’s what it feels like to be discarded by your own father.
“Kait,” I tell her quietly, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the saleswoman is still counting her money. “My name is Kait—Kaitlyn Barrett.”
As soon as I say my name, Dakota’s face goes slack before her slim, dark brows shoot up on her forehead so high, they nearly disappear into her hairline.
“You’re—” Her head jerks back on her neck when I nod, reaffirming what she just heard me say. Damien has obviously told her about me.
“Who’d you think I was?” Forgetting myself, I reach out and pick up the sleeve of a nearby blouse.
“Honestly…” Dakota gives me a shrug. “You could’ve been anyone. If the tabloids are any judge, my brother’s a bit of a whore.”
Oh.
Abbey failed to mention that.
“We’re just friends,” I tell her, reiterating what I overheard Went tell her on the phone, earlier. “I was in trouble so when Went left the ranch, he brought me with him.”
“He mentioned that.” Dakota narrows her eyes again. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind I had to leave the valley to get away from,” I tell her, my tone making it clear I’m not going to elaborate. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” Changing the subject, I drop the blouse sleeve and cock my head at the waiting saleswoman, across the store. “I still need to buy boots and underwear before our spa day starts, remember?”
Leaving Dakota behind, I start to walk toward the back of the store when something catches my eye. An ivory-lace sheath dress with a simple scoop neckline and straps so thin, I can hardly see them. The store’s stylist paired it on the mannequin with a pair of fancy red ropers and a red Stetson, cinching the waist in with a thin, silver leather belt that matches the hat’s band.
Catching up to me, Dakota bumps her shoulder against mine. “You want to try it on?”
When I nod, Dakota lifts her hand and signals the saleswoman who comes running.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she asks, on her approach. “We just got it in. The lace is handmade and imported from Ireland and the designer?—”
“We don’t care,” Dakota says before giving her a sweet smile. “We’ll see it in a size eight.”
The saleswoman bristles slightly before she remembers her commission and smiles. “Of course.” Lifting a manicured hand, she gestures toward the pair of dressing rooms next to the register. “If you’ll follow me.”
Letting her lead me to one of the rooms, I wait patiently for her to unlock it. “Size eight?” She asks, giving me a quick once over to confirm my size.
“Yes,” I tell her while I move into the opened room. “Thank you.” As soon as the door is shut I start to undress, pulling off my worn boots and setting them aside before shucking out of the same pair of jeans and oversized T-shirt I was wearing when I left my house to sneak up to see Went less than twenty-four hours ago. Thankfully I hadn’t decided to run away, right after I mucked out Two-tone’s stall. Remembering the straps, I make the last-minute decision to take off my bra before the saleswoman comes back to knock on the door. Opening the door, I stand behind it and peek my head around the edge of it to find her standing there with the dress I requested plus things I didn’t.
“I took the liberty of pulling the completed look,” she tells me, dollar signs flashing in her eyes. Before she can start to ramble about what sort of cow the boot leather came from or what sort of dye was used for the hat, I reach out and pluck the dress from her grasp. “I’m not interested in the completed look,” I tell her, shutting her down as gently as I can. “Just the dress.” I shut the door before she can start to cry.
Dress on, I look at myself and am completely underwhelmed at the way it hangs shapelessly from my frame like an imported lace potato sack. Deciding on a second opinion, I exit the dressing room to find Dakota waiting for me by herself, the saleswoman presumably putting back the items I rejected.
“Well?” Standing in front of the mirror, I examine myself critically. “What do you think?”
“I don’t love it,” Dakota tells me honestly. “It needs color—I can see why they paired it with that ugly red hat.”
Covering my face with my hand to smother a snort, I realize I’ve never done this before. I’ve never gone shopping with a girlfriend. Never laughed at silly fashion trends or let myself be talked into something too expensive and completely unnecessary. A bucket list item I never knew I needed until right now. When I get back upstairs, I’m going to add it to my list, just so I can cross it off.
“Thank you,” I tell Dakota quietly.
She gives me a puzzled look in the mirror we’re standing in front of. “For what?”
“For doing this.” I flip my hands, gesturing them at the store’s reflection. “For putting up with me. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Not really.” Dakota gives me a wry smile before it brightens and she lifts her hand. Snapping her fingers she lets out a whoop. “I know what it needs. Wait here,” she tells me before turning away from the mirror to dart deeper into the store. She returns a few minutes later with a wide, brown, engraved leather belt with a large turquoise buckle. Hands landing heavily on my shoulders, she whips me around. “Don’t look at the price tag,” she tells me while she wraps the belt around my waist and cinches it tight before pulling and tucking the dress until she’s satisfied with the way it looks. Hands back on my shoulders, she spins me around again so I can see myself in the mirror.
Dakota was right. It just needed some color.
“Oh…” I smooth my hands over my hips, the flare of them accentuated by the belt, before lifting them to trace the adjusted neckline. “Wow.”
“The leather belt is hand tooled, and the buckle is real turquoise. It’s called a Squash Blossom—a Navajo tribe in Arizona makes them and sends them up here on consignment,” she tells me. “Helping them get placed in the store was my capstone project for college.” She smiles at me over my shoulder. “I was a business major.”
“Went and I are getting married.” I blurt it out before I can come to my senses, for reasons I can’t even really understand.
“Married?” Dakota cocks a slim, dark brow at me, and for a moment, the resemblance between her and her brother is downright spooky. “Is that what friends are doing these days? Getting married?”
“It’s a long story…” I give her a wry smile when she gives me an exasperated eyeroll. “One I’d be inclined to share with my maid-of-honor.”
Dakota blinks at me once.
Twice.
And then she smiles.
“You’re marrying my brother and you want me to be your maid-of-honor?” When I give her a reluctant nod, she shakes her head. “Why me? Why not a friend or?—”
“I don’t have any friends.” Realizing how pathetic that sounds I try to backtrack. “ Here . I don’t have any friends here , and I know we’ll each need a witness to make it legal so, I just thought that since you already know I’m here, asking you would be the logical choice.”
Instead of laughing in my face or calling me on my obvious bullshit, Dakota considers me quietly for a moment before she sighs. “Do you love him?”
Do I love him?
Yes.
As impossible as it sounds, the answer is yes. Somehow, over the space of only a few weeks, I’ve fallen so desperately in love with Went that I’m willing to do anything to keep him—even if it means allowing him to marry me. Even though he doesn’t feel the same way.
Instead of telling her that, I nod. “Yes,” I tell her quietly. “I love him.”
Dakota eyes me skeptically. “If I’m going to be your maid-of-honor, I’m going to need a new dress.”
“Of course.” I nod again, this time emphatically.
“ And the tea,” she tells me. “I have a feeling that being a part of this won’t earn me any twin points with Damien, so if I’m going to stand up for you, I need the full story of what’s going on between you and Went.”
“Full story,” I promise her. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Her expression softens slightly. “Ask me again.”
“Will you be my maid-of-honor?”
This time, Dakota gives me a slow smile. “Abso- fuckin ’-lutely.”