Page 98 of The Gift
“He’s untouchable,” another agent muttered.
“No one’s untouchable,” he countered.
***
Austin traffic was chaotic. Margie drove with the calm of a woman who’d been navigating it since the Reagan administration. Tasha took over the playlist, alternating between country, indie pop, and something Erica couldn’t identify but pretended to enjoy.
Margie didn’t and promptly switched it off.
Tasha took it in stride and asked casually into the quiet, “So, how did you meet my dad?”
She nearly choked on her iced coffee.
Margie shot her a sympathetic smile. “You don’t have to share anything you’re not comfortable with, dear.”
“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “It’s just… complicated.”
That only made Tasha more curious. “Complicated romantic? Or complicated illegal?”
She tried not to squirm. She was too close to the truth but was grateful she’d left her an out. “Let’s go with complicated-romantic.”
Not a lie. Not the truth either. Somewhere in the middle.
“We’re here,” Margie announced, rescuing her.
The boutique was a bright, modern shop with racks of dresses in jewel tones and soft neutrals. Tasha dove in like a seasoned hunter. Margie browsed with the calm precision of someone who’d dressed for charity galas her whole life.
Erica paused at the threshold. She’d never set foot in a place like this. Of course, Vince had known that.
Tasha came back and retrieved her, slipping an arm through hers. “What are you feeling? Elegant? Vintage? Trendy?”
“Petrified.”
She laughed. “I was too, my first time. But don’t sweat it. It’s mostly stuffy rich people and boring politicians. I go for the clothes, the dancing, and the dessert. I would commit crimes for that cheesecake.”
Erica smiled. Tasha had that effect. “Good to know your priorities are solid.”
They drifted toward a display of evening gowns, her fingers brushing fabrics she could never buy for herself.
“You’re petite,” Margie said, appearing at her other elbow. “You need structure, not volume. Clean lines. Something that shows off your waist.”
“You know more about fashion than I ever will,” she murmured.
Margie smiled. “I raised a daughter who went to every country club and school dance. And a son who didn’t learn to dress himself until he was thirty.”
“Fact,” Tasha called from the far end of the rack.
The salesgirl helped them pick out three dresses for Erica to try on: an emerald sheath, a powder-blue column dress with a slit, and a midnight-blue off-the-shoulder gown with a mostly sheer lace back that dipped so low, just holding it made her blush.
She tried on the emerald first. It was pretty, though plain, and not her.
The pale blue swallowed her shape.
She slipped into the third dress, smoothing the silky fabric over her hips as she exited the fitting room. The color suited her, but the lace may have been too daring.
Margie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s the one. With the Valentino shoes.”
Tasha circled her like a stylist.
