Page 3 of The Wrong Brother

I definitely can’t afford this place.

“Just looking,” I mumble automatically, inching further into the store.

Her smile doesn’t falter, though I catch the quick flick of her eyes over my tank top and sandals. “Of course.”

I wander deeper before I lose my nerve. Silk brushes my fingertips as I pass racks of dresses that probably cost more than my rent back in Colorado. Maybe more than my car payment, too, though I sold the car to afford the tickets out here.

God.

I stop in front of a display near the back and stare.

The gown is dark red—deep, like spilled wine in candlelight. Black lace curls over the bodice and hips in delicate patterns, dramatic without being tacky. The slit climbs scandalously high up one thigh.

It’s ridiculous. Which is probably why I can’t stop looking at it.

“Beautiful choice.”

I glance over as the saleswoman appears beside me again.

“Oh, no,” I laugh softly. “That’s definitely not my kind of dress.”

Something flickers in her expression. “Sometimes that’s the point.”

Before I can stop myself, I reach for it. The fabric is impossibly soft between my fingers. The back laces up, and a whispered thought crosses my mind:How would this look wrapped around my waist, draped over my hips? Would it give me my confidence back?

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing alone in a fitting room, wondering what the hell possessed me.

The dress is halfway on and already fighting me.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, twisting awkwardly as I try to reach the laces.

This thing was clearly designed for someone with approximately half my body mass.

The bodice cups my breasts almost obscenely, pushing them up high enough that I barely recognize myself. The slit exposes far too much thigh. And the back?—

I crane my neck toward the mirror.

The lacing pulls tight across my curves, leaving slivers of skin exposed between the ribbons.

It’s too much.

Too sexy.

Exactly the kind of thing a woman like Matty could wear effortlessly, while I spend the entire evening tugging at fabric and apologizing for existing. Plus, she has places to wear this kind of thing—galas, exclusive polo matches, premieres.

The curtain opens, and a yelp slips out. “Oh, my?—”

“I’m so sorry, darling, I just thought you might need some help?”

The saleswoman again. My eyes narrow, that instinctual part of my brain kicking in—the one that got me through the academy and into analytics before I was shoved briefly into the field.

What’s the ulterior motive?

But her smile seems genuine. I turn slowly, and her fingers graze my back, deftly loosening and straightening the laces.

A sharp laugh sounds outside the fitting room. The saleswoman and I both glance over our shoulders at a blonde woman standing in the hallway, her dark eyes skimming my body.

“Well, that dress is certainly ambitious.”