Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

27. Clara

Chapter 27

Clara

S ummer is smaller than I remember. Perhaps she was wearing absurdly tall heels at that poker night where I watched her almost flirting with Walker.

Or maybe her presence was so bold I didn’t notice that she was short enough for me to see the top of her blond head. She came in, heard what Trips was going for, made me strip to my underwear and spin before vanishing into the shop. She returned with piles of dresses spread between two associates. Then I got to go through my second round of trying on clothes that weigh more than my snow boots.

No one ever told me rich-people clothes require muscles.

Everything I try on has her handing things I haven’t even tried on back to the associates and calling for new items to be brought back.

The guys sit in near silence on the giant ottoman, trusting Summer with my appearance. And if they wander in and out as the process lingers, I can’t say I blame them. It’s taking forever.

“Can you explain what you’re doing?” I ask, shimmying out of a pile of tulle and handing it to her, as her perfect pink lips turn down. She shoves the dress through the curtain to a waiting attendant.

“Clothes are armor,” she says, handing me a black velvet halter dress that will have at least five extra inches of fabric trailing on the floor once I put it on.

She helps me into it, zipping up the back, her stick-straight blond hair swinging over her shoulder as she motions me to spin on the tiny platform in front of the mirror. I do, kicking the fabric to make sure it’s not underfoot. Her ice princess act is making me skittish and anxious, and I don’t know how to turn it off.

“While I get the metaphor,” I say, “how are you deciding which dresses look good on me? I’d like to do this without help at some point. No offense, of course. I need the help. But as much as I like this fairy godmother treatment, I want to learn, too.”

“You can pull off black,” she says, unzipping me.

I step out of the dress, weirdly comfortable standing there half naked in front of a stranger after who knows how many dresses I’ve tried on and discarded today. “Can’t everyone?”

“Nope. I look like an undertaker when I wear black. It’s probably the same for Trips and Jansen.” Demonstrating, she holds the dress I just took off up to her face, and her creamy skin immediately turns sheet white.

“Weird. ”

She shrugs, sticking the dress out of the curtain, where it vanishes. “Color is weird. At least Walker’s figured out which colors work well for you. Dark, rich jewel tones make your skin glow and your eyes pop. So does black and the occasional cool, heady pastel. But if I were to dress you up in the colors that look good on me, you’d look hazy instead of clear. No soft summer blues for you.”

“Got it.”

“Or creams, camels, or warm browns. They make your skin red and patchy.”

“I always knew I hated beige.”

She hands me a corseted emerald gown with a smile, appreciating my attempt at humor, even if it isn’t worth a laugh.

As soon as she ties me into the princess dress, it’s obvious that I don’t have the boobs to pull this one off. We share a look, and she immediately unties me. “Now, we’re working out what fits work for your build.”

“And what are we learning?”

“That draping works better for you than structure. And that a deep neckline is probably going to be better than a sweetheart, boat neck, or crew neckline.”

“Won’t that look too mature?”

“On me, I’d look like I’m putting my goods up for sale. On you, it’ll look classy.”

Before I know how to answer that weirdly nonjudgmental comment on my lack of boobs when compared to her generous breasts, she scoops up the green fabric and leaves the changing room with it. It’s just me in my underwear, alone.

The dark circles under my eyes make me frown. I’m not good enough at makeup to make those disappear. My cheeks are thinner, my ribs faintly visible under my skin, and I know I should feel scared. I’m not supposed to look like this. I’m an athlete—food is fuel.

But what are you supposed to do when even your favorite foods taste like dust? When you don’t get hungry anymore? When sitting still long enough to have a full meal gives your mind time to wander places you sure as shit don’t want it to go?

Would a run kick-start my appetite? I know Walker’s been cooking almost nonstop since he got back, trying to get me to eat more than a single piece of bacon or three bites of last night’s delicious hearty stew.

But chewing is hard.

And if that isn’t fucked up, I don’t know what is.

Summer comes back in with a swath of translucent fabric in a red so deep it looks like it was dunked in wine. Or covered in half-dried blood.

It’s a brutal color, coupled with a texture more often associated with nightgowns and ballet skirts, and I reach for it, the texture whisper soft. She holds the fabric under my chin in the mirror, and I can see how the color makes my face pop like it’s in HD. Which, as nothing else has changed, is weird as all shit. “This is definitely an excellent color on you,” she says. “Should we try for fit?”

I nod, suddenly aware of how much color changes the way I look. The way I present myself. The way others probably see me.

Summer turns me away from the mirror as she shakes out the dress .

I’m reminded of Jasmine with her sleek creams and rusty reds, of how the way her clothes fit told me before she even opened her mouth that she’d come from money.

If that’s what Trips is hoping to get from me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull it off. But looking at the burgundy gown, I’m starting to understand what Summer said about clothes being armor. In something like this, I might be able to fake it. Maybe.

She helps me into the red swath of gauze, and I’m perplexed when the thing has built-in underwear, like a swimsuit and a nightgown had a baby.

The bodice is a halter top, with swirls of loose fake roses gathered at the center of the defined waistband and over one shoulder. Summer ties a bow behind my neck before spinning me back to face the mirror.

We both stare at my reflection.

The dress is entirely see-through, the built-in underwear the only point where modesty remains. The skirt pools on the floor, and I pop up onto my toes and take a few steps, watching as the fabric ripples around me like water, or a cloud.

Or like wine poured over textured glass.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Fucking fierce. This is your dress,” Summer says, taking me in from head to toe.

“My nipples are just out there.”

“So?”

I swallow, not sure how to answer. Because I look fierce. I look like the kind of woman who wears a dress that shows her nipples and doesn’t freak out about it .

This dress speaks power. It’s violence and grace, femininity on a warpath, strength that bends and flows as I move.

“I can’t meet Trips’ scary dad with my nipples out,” I breathe out, disappointment crushing as I acknowledge the truth in that statement.

Summer’s faint smile disappears. “Give it a spin,” she says.

I do, and it flares out from my legs before drifting back against my skin. “I love it. But it’s not what we need,” I say, turning away from the vision in the mirror, pulling the string behind my neck, stepping out of the dress, and handing it to Summer.

She takes it from the changing room, but I don’t turn back to the mirror. I want to keep the vision of that woman locked in my mind for as long as I can. Because she’s everything I’ve always wished for myself. And she’s everything that I’m missing as this scraped out shell I currently am.

The urge to throw a punch surges through me, anger at my weakness flooding my body, making me shake.

Summer ducks back into the room, and I swallow all the emotions down, forcing a smile on my face as I turn to her.

“Okay, I spoke with Trips, and you’re right. That dress, while undeniably your dress, isn’t what you need to meet his family. I think I found something else, though, that won’t have the whole room staring at you like you’re a vampire queen about to declare war and instead will let you look like a boring, rich college girl. Which, I’m going to say, is a total waste of your badass bitch energy, but who am I to judge needing to adapt to fit in? ”

She drops a dark, plummy-pink dress over my head, the material cool and silky against my skin, reminding me of the slip RJ got me.

“How did you end up mixed up with the guys?” I ask, as she pulls strings over my shoulders, crossing them behind me and tying them closed at my waist. Then she fiddles with something at the small of my back.

“I’ve known Jansen since he was a snot-nosed, busy-body tagalong. When I found out he had something to do with these mysterious high stakes poker games that started up a few years ago, I reached out and got myself an invitation. That’s really all there is to the story.”

I process exactly what she said and what she didn’t. “If you knew Jansen as a kid, how did you end up running in the same circles as Trips?”

“Life is funny sometimes. Okay, spin.”

I turn to the mirror, taking in this more docile attempt. The silk dips in a low cowl neck across my chest, but the depth is not nearly as scandalous as the burgundy dress. The purple-pink silk slides down my body, giving me curves where I usually have none, pooling at my feet with a whisper. I step onto the podium in front of the mirror and twist to look at the back, finding tiny buttons from the small of my waist to my tailbone, strings crossing my back in an X, simple bows keeping them in place.

“You could have the ties go straight down, if you’d prefer. But I thought the cross back suited you better.”

The color still looks good on me, the dress hangs beautifully and feels nice against my skin, and if I hadn’t tried the see-through blood-wine dress first, I’d think this dress was perfect.

Maybe because it’s perfect for the girl I was a few months ago. Pretty, inoffensive, sweet, and eager to please.

The open back and deep neckline are the only hints of the person I’m changing into. That and the fact that I’m even wearing a silk evening dress at all. One that doesn’t have a price tag. Although, the Saint Laurent tag clues me in to exactly how absurdly expensive this dress must be. The Dolce and Gabbana tag in the other dress isn’t any better.

But I need armor for this mission. And good armor doesn’t come cheap. Not even the silk kind.

“What do you think?” Summer asks.

“It’s exactly what we need.”

“Good. Let me try on my dress, then we’ll go get you heels and clothes for brunch on Saturday. An overcoat and purse we’ll get secondhand—you don’t want to look like you bought everything new just for this event.”

“I don’t?”

“Hell no. If you’re supposed to be some old money East Coaster, you have to show that you’ve been buying quality since before you got your driver’s license.”

I nod along like this is something obvious as I pull the strings on my dress, twisting the buttons to the front so I can undo them. Summer disappears again, coming back with a pale blue corset dress in her arms.

Back in my jeans and sweatshirt, I breathe a sigh of relief—comfortable in my thrifted glory .

Meanwhile, Summer strips down, motioning for me to drop the dress over her head, leaving me to attempt the corset ties as best I can.

Where the corset dress I tried made me look like a kid playing dress-up, on Summer, it’s stunning.

The icy blue makes her eyes glitter, and the corset top offers her boobs up like a fucking feast. If Emma were here, I’m pretty sure she’d be speechless. I’m straight as a pin and I’m impressed. “Wow,” I say.

“I thought this one would work. Hand me my phone?”

I fish it out of her bag, and she puts on a coquettish grin, snapping a few shots of herself from different angles. As soon as she finishes, the charming smile is gone, and she turns her back to me. “Untie me?”

“Sure. Are those shots heading straight to social media? Are you an influencer or something?”

She huffs a laugh. “No, just teasing my date for this event.”

“I don’t want to seem forward, but we’ve literally seen each other mostly naked at this point. I’m just wondering where you get all your money. If you grew up with Jansen, it’s not like you have a trust fund. And you’re not old enough to be making hand over fist as a lawyer or doctor. If you’re not an influencer or model, it’s just not tracking for me.”

Her ties loosened, we pull the dress over her head, and I hang it back up while she gets dressed. “I’m a dog walker,” she answers once she’s back in her soft-looking white sweater and light blue jeans, white leather boots in the process of being laced.

I freeze, staring at her. “A dog walker? ”

“Yeah. If you know anyone who needs help with their dog, send them my way.”

I can’t help the way laughter overtakes me, causing me to lean against the wall for support. “No. I don’t believe you.”

She pulls a card out of her wallet, and there, clear as day, is her truth. “Summer’s Break-time Services, Summer Jones, Owner and Dog Whisperer.”

I stand there, holding the little rectangular card, the laminated surface smooth under my fingers. Summer stands up, mischief on her face, and I pass the card back. “I’m not going to stop trying to figure this out,” I say.

“Grit is a practice, not a trait,” she says, tucking the card back into her purse.

“You like to evade answers by popping off little aphorisms, don’t you?”

“And you like to think you’re clever.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t. Any wisdom I’ve got, I’ve either learned through failure or picked up in a self-help book. Feel free to try to figure me out. I’m not complicated. But I am a dog walker. I didn’t even graduate from high school, but I made a secure life for myself. I get invited to all kinds of fancy places, so I need fancy clothes. And that’s all there is to it.”

“What about the fancy cars?”

“Nothing wrong with liking speed over substance. Even better if it’s speed and substance.”

I chuckle, sliding the curtain open, finding Trips and Walker still waiting in the dressing room. Trips lounges against the wall, phone in hand. Walker, meanwhile, must have collected his sketchbook from the car. My appearance has him looking up and scratching his cheek, smearing charcoal across his face.

“Hey,” he says, his smile bright as he unfolds himself from the ottoman couch. “Are you done?”

“I have a dress, Summer has a dress, so I think we’re good.” I wipe the soot from his cheek, and he presses his lips to my palm.

Trips looks up from his phone. “What about clothes for brunch the next morning?”

Summer nods, like this is something she’s already thought about. “I figured we’d hit up Angelique’s for day wear. I have some consignment shops in mind for a coat and purse that don’t scream this season. And Oliver’s should be good for shoes. Clara’s dress for the party will need to be hemmed and perhaps taken in a touch at the waist, so we’ll leave it here for now.”

Trips raises a brow, and Summer smiles. “I’m sure they can guess that as well once they have her measurements. I’ll text you heel height after Oliver’s. Now, what are we doing for jewelry?”

Walker stretches, the hint of skin showing above his belt, and poorly timed butterflies flutter in my gut. Lying next to him last night and not having sex was torture.

I hate it, but I get it. Sex, as great as it is, isn’t fixing me. And Walker doesn’t want to be my distraction. He wants more. He deserves more.

But sex is the only Band-Aid I’ve got right now.

I don’t know what to do about it, besides knocking on Jansen’s door every night. But that’s not fair to Walker. Or RJ. If this is going to work, it has to be fair .

It takes a second for my sluggish brain to catch up to what Walker’s been saying while I’ve been caught by my own thoughts. And hormones. Can’t forget about those. “—needs, and we’ll take care of it.”

Summer hands her dress to the attendant just outside our room, along with a credit card. “Dark silver or white gold, brushed, not shiny. No glitter or sparkles. They’ll make her look like a prom queen. Maybe onyx for stones? Something moody, cool-toned, and dark, either way. For the party, earrings and a bangle, no necklace. She’ll need a watch for the next morning, and simpler earrings for the next day. Also,” she locks eyes with Trips, “One cuff, the bigger the better, and simple earrings in the same style. No bling. We’re looking for force, not grace.”

Trips records the list on his phone, and I have to clear my throat to get everyone’s attention. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

Walker slides up beside me, pressing a kiss to my head. “Let us spoil you for once.”

“What if I don’t like what you pick out?”

The look he gives me is so full of smug confidence, I can’t help but laugh.

“Fine. I won’t make a fuss. But that’s only because I don’t know that I’ll have the energy to fuss after all this shopping I apparently still have to do.”

Trips jams his phone into his pocket. “Good. We have time before RJ and Jansen get back. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Do we have time? When do all the shops close?”

Summer chuckles as Trips smirks. “I just sent a timed itinerary to the stores. They’ll be open for us. ”

I link arms with Walker, and after a moment, Trips as well. “Westerhouse money freaks me out. Time to fuel up for the long day ahead.”

I shouldn’t be surprised when Trips pulls away after a moment. And I’m not, not really.

But if it weren’t for the soft squeeze of my arm before he slipped free, I might have cried. As it is, I force another smile onto my face and trudge out into the cold, off to buy more impossibly expensive things that I don’t want, all while wishing I could have one less father to impress, and one more guy on my arm.