Chapter 8 #2
We drive in silence until he pulls into a parking space just outside a strip mall. “Any of these places look good?” He gestures to a few boutiques. “We know someone who owns this one here.”
He points at a place with high-heeled shoes and purses in a large window. This shit’s pricey. My family was well off, but nothing like some of the families I knew. More to the point, I’ve been independent and haven’t taken their money in a very long time. I thrust my chin out.
“It looks fine, but I’m going to pay you back. Just because I don’t have money on me right now doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”
“Like hell, you’ll pay me back,” he says, shaking his head. He opens the car and comes over to my side, but I quickly open it before he can get the satisfaction of doing it for me. I still don’t trust him.
I step quickly out of the car and walk with him toward the little boutique. I’m nervous about what will happen next after I get dressed, and I want this part over with.
It feels a bit strange to be walking into a boutique with him.
He isn’t the type who fits into a place like this.
Men who go boutique shopping with a woman should be pretty and refined, well-manicured and shellacked.
He’s so big he has to duck to walk through the door.
A five o’clock shadow ghosts his chin already, and when we enter, a woman with a baby in a carriage draws in a sharp breath and takes off without a backward glance.
Yeah, he’s that terrifying.
“Mr. Romanov.” A tall, older woman, who could be my grandmother, approaches us on silver stilettos.
Her hair’s trendy and short, a bit spiky, and she wears diamond studs that accentuate the crisp navy of her tank and pencil skirt.
“Rosa told me to expect you. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already taken the liberty of pulling out some clothes that might suit the occasion, as I know you’re pressed for time.
” She holds out her hand to me. “My name is Opal. So pleased to meet you.”
I take her warm, confident hand and return the gesture. “I’m Lydia.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lydia,” she says with utter grace, as if I’m the Queen of England and didn’t just walk into her high-end boutique in a tattered dress covered by a man’s worn leather jacket.
“Rosa’s a family friend,” Viktor says in a low rumble. He places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the back of the shop. “She’s the owner and a friend of ours. I texted her. She’s in Boston but said Opal will take good care of you.”
I nod, allowing myself to be escorted, as I do a quick sweep of the boutique and the kinds of clothes they have.
It’s filled with racks of beautifully crafted garments that smack of sophistication and comfort.
They’re chic and timeless, with soft, high-quality fabrics and an array of earthy and neutral tones.
These are not factory-made or fast fashion designed for skinny mannequins but garments that hint at understated luxury made for real women.
My kind of place, honestly.
In the back, the fitting rooms are roomy and private. There’s a small area with a coffee maker and mugs and a beverage fridge with chilled drinks. Viktor reaches in wordlessly and takes out two bottles of water. He twists the top off the bottle before he hands it to me. “Drink.”
“No wine? I’m disappointed.”
He only narrows his eyes at me. I’m not a fool, so I drink. I’ll need it.
“Please choose whatever else you wish,” Opal says. “You’ll find our clothing features a natural blend of luxury, comfort, and versatility, featuring diverse sizes and styles. I’ll leave you to it and be right outside this door if I can help in any way.”
My cheeks flush when she says diverse sizes.
We have plus sizes.
I sigh. Fine. There’s no need for me to try to squeeze into something that isn’t made for me.
I stare at Viktor, waiting for him to step out of the changing room.
“Well?” I say with a shrug. “Should I try these on or what?”
“Of course,” he says, holding my gaze with challenge in his eyes as he folds himself into a sturdy chair in the corner. I half expect it to snap in two. He looks like he’s trying to fit into a chair made for a child.
“Viktor.”
“Mmm?” He polishes off the water in the bottle. I must be out of my mind because the way his Adam’s apple bobs and the sight of his huge hand dwarfing the small bottle is so unapologetically masculine…
I look away.
“I don’t want you in here.”
I jump at the sound of him crushing the water bottle before he tosses it into a small wastebasket.
“I thought you might say that,” he says, his eyes as dark as storm clouds on a winter day. “I’ve been lenient with you, Lydia. I’ve given you lots of freedom. Unfortunately, you lost the privilege of privacy by setting a fire in our house.”
Not my house.
Our house.
He’s chosen his words deliberately.
“It’s not appropriate for you to watch me get dressed.”
“You’ve made it clear it’s not appropriate for me to step away.” He crosses his massive arms across his chest, his biceps bulging. “We’re wasting time, and it’s pointless. We’re getting married.”
“For God’s sake,” I curse. “Fine.”
I shrug out of his jacket and whip it at him as hard as I can. He catches it mid-air and casually shrugs it back on, his eyes never leaving mine. I swallow and turn to the mirror.
I hate these places. Mirror upon mirror under bright lights seems to highlight every flaw and bump and lump. I cast my eyes away and reach for a pair of jeans and a pair of black leggings. Black is forgiving.
“What was that?”
I turn in surprise to look at him.
“What?”
“That face you made. You looked in the mirror and made a face then turned away.”
“Did I?”
I’m focused on removing my fucked up clothes and not looking at him when I stand in front of him wearing only my underwear.
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe I’m uncomfortable getting undressed in front of a man I hardly know?”
“Mmm.”
He isn’t buying it.
I rip off the rest of my clothes and throw them into a heap. We’ll have to toss them out. I turn to face him. I want to take back some measure of control, and maybe standing in front of him wearing only panties and a shitty push-up bra under my ample breasts is one way.
I’m not wrong.
I intentionally bend over and pick a hanger off the floor.
When I look up, his gaze is heated, his eyes half lidded, and a flush of color spreads up his neck, darkening his already rugged features.
His jaw clenches, a subtle hint of his loss of control, and his breathing grows a hair heavier.
The air around him seems charged. He shifts, his large hands flexed on his elbows as he seems to struggle to maintain his composure.
My heartbeat thunders.
It worked.
I do my level best not to wilt under the heat of his stare, fixated on me with raw, unhindered desire.
“You’re fucking gorgeous. Now put those on before I do something that makes us even later than we are.”
Oh God. Why does a part of me wish he would? Why does a part of me want him to?
I slide into the jeans, turn to the mirror, and try to button them. Too tight. My belly bulges, and the button doesn’t snap.
I turn away, mortified, and step out of them.
He watches me silently.
I reach for a second pair, and the same thing happens.
“Fuck those. Leggings,” he growls, handing me the pair of black leggings. “We’re out of time. I’ll pick out what you’ll try on.”
I’m not sure how that’s going to make us choose any quicker, but fine. I toss the jeans in a pile and step into the leggings. They’re soft and luxurious and fit me as if they were created for me.
“Alright, I’ll reluctantly give you that point,” I say with a huff. “But leggings are hard to fuck up.”
“That’s not what Polina says.”
I reach for a top when he smacks my hand away. I pull back as if bitten, my jaw unhinged.
“What’d I say? I told you I’m picking them out. Behave yourself.”
I open my mouth to protest, but instead, that isn’t what comes out. “Who’s Polina again?”
Am I jealous?
“My sister. She’s particular about things like leggings.
She went on a rant about it a few weeks ago.
” He chooses a dark, brick-colored fitted blouse for me to pair with the leggings.
It’s sleek with long sleeves and would almost be conservative if not for the deep vee that accentuates my bust. The fabric is thick but has a hint of stretch.
I slide into the top and turn this way and that, checking myself out. “Damn, I look hot. Like, CEO-of-kickass hot.”
Wow.
Viktor nods, his eyes still intense and on fire. Approving. “This will do.”
“It better. We’re getting more of these.” I watch his reaction.
“I’ll be the judge of that. You can submit your requests, but I’ll handle procurement.”
I scoff, hands on hips, as his phone rings. It reminds me that Timur tossed my phone out the fucking window, and I need a new one. Why’d he do that?
He quirks a brow at me. “You can put in some requests, but I get the final say.”
“What is this, the 1920s? Should I light up a Pall Mall and wear some heels? Sir?”
Viktor takes a step closer to me in the small interior of the dressing room. Though it’s roomier than most I’ve seen, he’s the size of a bear, and I’m no pixie, so there’s not exactly wiggle room.
“We’ll skip the cigarette, but heels? Yeah. I’ll add those to the list.” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “You can wear just those heels and repeat that sir.”
Gawwd.
He glances at his watch. “But not now. We need to go. Wear the clothes out.” Leaning over, he plucks the tags off and answers his phone. “We’re on our way.”