Chapter 9 #2
“Martha,” she corrects him with a laugh that sounds like holiday bells. “Please. And you must be Ms. Reardon.” She turns to me.
“Aeryn,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand.
“Aeryn,” she repeats, then claps as if my name delights her. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling a few things you might find of interest.”
I glance at Gage with a look of disbelief. I’ve been with him since he got off the phone with Trap Prince. Even if he sneaked in a phone call while he was making me breakfast, this joyful little woman has had less than an hour to prepare for our arrival.
Gage offers an elaborate shrug, both hands turned toward the ceiling.
“Right this way,” Martha says, ushering us toward the back of the shop.
“I’ll wait up here,” Gage says.
“You’re welcome to have a seat outside the fitting room. I just mixed up a fresh batch of eggnog.”
“I’ll wait here,” Gage repeats, his voice a little rough.
He’s embarrassed. This man—who runs a sex club catering to every kink under the sun, who turned me over his knee without blinking, who served me breakfast this morning like not a day has passed since we fucked like bunnies for the hottest month of my life—he’s blushing at the thought of watching me try on clothes.
In a rush, I realize it’s not my body that makes him uneasy. It’s the thought of buying me a present. That’s an intimacy we’ve never shared before.
“Well,” Martha says. “Just let me know if you need anything.” And she whisks me back to the fitting room as if she’s taking me to a royal ball.
She’s done her work well. A display rack stands beside a triple mirror, filled with party dresses.
There’s hand-embroidered emerald silk and ruched cobalt satin and black chantilly lace over a floor-length ruby shell.
There are metallic florals and pearly scallops and a leather dress that looks too short for an elf.
Martha flips through them all, rearranging the hangers, sorting them by some secret system.
Three times, she transfers a dress to another rack, saying, “No,” and, “Not right at all,” and “It was a long-shot anyway.”
In the end, she hands me a floor-length dress cut from lapis-color crepe. It’s sleeveless, with a single silver button at the asymmetric neckline. The dress gathers in gentle folds across the waist, drawing the eye away from a hidden zipper.
“Try this one, dear,” Martha says.
I step into the fitting room, leaving the door ajar. “I appreciate all the work you’ve done on such short notice,” I say as I shrug out of my coat.
“I love pulling together collections like this,” she says.
“You certainly have some beautiful things to choose from.” I step out of my shoes and tug off my dress.
“Why thank you, dear,” Martha says with a laugh. And then, “Oh my…”
For one uneasy second, I think she’s seen my bruises from last night. But then she clicks her tongue three quick times and shakes her head with a fluttery little laugh. “I’m sorry, dear. You’ll need something under that dress.”
My cheeks turn scarlet. It’s a sign of her hospitality that I forgot I have no knickers. “I’m sorry—” I start to apologize, but she only waves a wrinkled hand.
“None of that,” she says with a bright smile. “You wouldn’t believe how often my customers lack appropriate underthings.” She trills another laugh and slips out of the fitting room. She’s gone for less than a minute before she returns with a pair of simple cotton briefs.
She busies herself with the sapphire gown as I pull on my new knickers. “Now,” she says, passing me the delicate dress. “Let’s see how this looks.”
It looks amazing.
It looks like every stitch was made specifically for my body. The waistline traces my curves like a lover. The color turns my hair into shining bronze. My eyes deepen to a green not found in nature. My shoulders—naturally broad—look delicate but strong.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe. I don’t know where I’ll wear it, but it has to be mine.
“It is stunning,” Martha says. “But maybe we’ll like the next one even more.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as I look over my shoulder into the mirror. “I won’t like anything more. This is perfect.”
Martha brings me shoes—sedate sandals that are infinitely more comfortable than my stilettos. She offers a simple pearl choker as well, along with matching earrings. I half-expect her to summon a crystal coach, like an honest-to-God fairy godmother.
“There,” she says before offering a sly wink. “Shall we keep all of this a surprise for Mr. Rider?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
And that’s what we do. I find Gage at the front of the store, where he’s watching a uniformed meter maid slip a parking ticket under the Porsche’s windshield wiper. “I told you!” I said.
“Cost of doing business,” he says. “Did you find something?”
I suddenly feel shy. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Martha calls him over to the register, and he works some magic with a black American Express card. “Thank you,” I say to Martha as Gage collects a bag brimming with silver tissue paper.
“My pleasure,” she says. “I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.” Her joyous laugh follows us out of the store.
Gage opens the Porsche’s passenger door, but I feel awkward folding into the sports car. My coat almost catches in the door, and my shoulder twinges when I twist around for the seatbelt.
I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.
I can. I’ve spent Christmas Eve the exact same way the last ten years—getting drunk on whiskey, toasting Logan’s memory. I owe that to my brother, to never forget my role in how he died.
Shaking my head, I remind myself that none of this can last. This trip to New York is a farewell to my old life. I head home to Chicago tomorrow, to open the diner my father demands, to take my place as a loyal Reardon daughter.
Christmas Eve.
I’ve let myself be seduced by skyscrapers and fine dining, by a stunning crepe gown and the force of nature that is Gage Rider. I shouldn’t have any of this. This is the very opposite of what I deserve.
Of all people, Gage should understand we’ve made a mistake. He has the same memories I do. He survived the same Christmas Eve that destroyed me.
Gage smiles at me through the windshield before he deposits the Gallagher Samson bag in the car’s compact front trunk. He plucks the parking ticket from the window and slips it into his back pocket. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turns to me with a reckless grin.
“Where to, next? I was thinking Tiffany’s.”
“I don’t need any more presents.”
“I know you don’t need them. But I want to give them to you.”
I wring my hands. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“You already gave me a gift, wrapped it in a big red bow. And I fully expect a private runway show of whatever is in that bag.”
I stare out the window.
“Aeryn?” Gage finally says.
I twitch a shoulder to let him know I heard.
“Did I say something wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Did I make a mistake?”
Another shake. Even without turning around, I know he’s studying me. I can picture his narrowed eyes. I pull myself closer to my door, in case he thinks he can just reach out and make it all better.
“Babygirl,” he says, sticking to his side of the car. “I can’t read minds.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I finally say. And when he doesn’t respond, I continue.
“I mean, I know how to read a feckin’ calendar.
I knew the date when I woke this morning.
For God’s sake, I’m heading back to Chicago tomorrow, to spend Christmas with the Reardon clan, the way I have every year of my life.
But hearing Martha say it… It was ten years ago, Gage.
Ten years ago tonight. Dresses and Tiffany’s and prancing around in everything you just bought me…
It’s not right. It’s not fair. We can’t forget losing Logan. ”
“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” he says, his voice dangerously soft.
“But…” I wave my hand toward the trunk and my beautiful new clothes.
“What do you want to do, Aeryn? What can you possibly think will make it all right?”
I say the words before I have time to regret them. “I want to go to Aces Arena. I want to see where Logan died.”