Page 13 of Tap Left
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why his words hurt so much, or why I even chose to defy him in the first place.
“You’re right.” I glance down at my shoes to keep my burning eyes from leaking over onto my cheeks. “I know what I asked for. And I know that you’re taking time out of your schedule to do this.”
Daire doesn’t respond. And when I look up, he almost seems disappointed with my half-assed apology, but not in the way I expect. He seems disappointed that I caved so soon.
"I’m sorry,” I reiterate. “It won’t happen again. Next time, I’ll listen to your advice.”
He doesn’t answer until his phone breaks the silence. “Let’s go. The driver is here.”
He leads me to the car, and I trail along behind like a scolded toddler. “Where are we going now?”
“Shopping,"he answers tersely.
“Seriously?”
Sometimes my mouth gets me in trouble, and I obviously haven’t learned anything today. Daire stops tapping away at his phone for a few seconds to answer me. "Most women live for shopping."
"That isn't true," I insist. "This may be a foreign concept to you, but there are other varieties of women besides cheerleaders who love to shop."
I sound like a bratty, jealous teenager and I don't know why.
Daire looks at me for a second too long, and I know what he’s thinking even if he doesn’t voice it. It’s been well over a decade since he dated a cheerleader and I don’t know why I brought that up.
I’m relieved when he chooses not to exploit my embarrassment in the usual fashion. The rest of the car ride is peaceful because he spends it working from his phone. When the car does come to a stop, it’s right in front of Barneys on Oak Street.
“I think you better tell the driver he got lost on the way to TJ Maxx.”
Daire unfolds his long body from the car and waits on the sidewalk, but I remain glued to the safety of the leather seat.
"I'm not shopping here.”
"Lola, I don’t have time for this. Let’s go.”
There are a lot of things I’m willing to bend on, but this isn’t one of them. Daire knows I can’t afford to shop in a place like this. Which means he thinks he’s paying for it.
“There has to be a line somewhere,” I say. “This is it for me, Daire. I’m not going to let you buy me clothes. That’s too weird. You already paid for the spa, which I fully intend to pay you back. But this is too much.”
He ignores my pleas and attempts to strong-arm me out of the car, and in the process, his cane clatters to the ground. I dig in my heels and yank away from him.
“If this is a deal breaker for you, then I guess the deal is done.”
He blinks at me like nobody has ever told him no before. I highly doubt he ever expected to hear it from me of all people, but I meant what I said. There should be a line somewhere.
“Are you telling me no?”
I swallow and nod. Daire leans down into my space and grazes a lock of pink hair with his finger. “So that’s a firm no?”
I can’t breathe when he’s this close. I can’t think either, and I wonder if he knows it. “It’s just that—”
“Let me do this for you, LB.” His fingers are on my bare shoulder now, inciting a riot throughout my nervous system. “The money means nothing to me. Come tomorrow, I won’t even remember what I spent it on. There are no strings. There are no debts. It’s just a gift.”
He's using that voice. The one he uses on women to get what he wants. The one he uses to sell his mass-market products and services. This is why he's so good at what he does. Don Draper had nothing on Adrian Daire.I’m caving, and he knows it. The familiarity is getting to me, and I’m worried about giving myself away. I’m worried about looking like a fool in front of him again. When his gaze moves across my collarbone and up my neck, I’m painfully aware of my pulse beating violently for him.
I hate him for having this effect on me. I hate him for a whole slew of other reasons too, but sometimes I seem to forget that. I throw up the white flag and lean back for some much-needed air.
"Just a few things," I mumble. "Nothing too extravagant."
He nods, and swiftly makes a mockery of the very statement.The next hour is a whirlwind of personal shoppers and racks of clothing. At some point, someone hands me a glass of champagne, followed by a steady flow of repeats. I'm overwhelmed by the price tags and about to break out in hives in the dressing room when one of the zippers on a dress gets stuck.
