Page 25 of Handle Me

“The only professional who shaves their legs before a business date is a call girl,” she informed me.

“Mom, please.” I shook my head. “This is exactly what I’m trying to avoid from the public, I don’t need it from you when you know it’s fake. I don’t want you to think I’m involved with Anders.”

“Then, why are you shaving your legs?” she pressed.

“Because I’m going to wear a skirt.”

“You’re a modern woman. You don’t have to shave your legs to wear a skirt,” she said.

I nearly dropped the phone in the bathtub. I’d grown up with very clear expectations on how to present myself. Expectations that were relics of a different time and place. My mother felt strongly about gender roles. She’d supported my education and business mostly because she saw it as a way for me to find a husband. Being a modern woman in her eyes was news to me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You could wear tights,” she suggested.

“With this outfit, I’d still need to shave,” I said with a sigh.

“Not necessarily—”

“Mom, I only called so you didn’t see me on a tabloid cover with Anders later this week and jump to conclusions.”

“Well, that is thoughtful of you to save me from the same fate twice,” she said with a sniff that suggested she still had yet to forgive Clara for finding out about my sister’s relationship that way. “What are you wearing?”

My shoulders sagged at the question. I’d nearly forgotten my dilemma. I wasn’t sure she was the person to help me, but if Belle wasn’t going to return my calls, what choice did I have?

“It’s a bit cool up here. I was thinking either the Saint Laurent mini sheath, or that lacy Alexander McQueen we picked up a few weeks ago.” As nosy as my mother could be, she did know my closet. She’d been there when I bought half of the items.

“The Saint Laurent,” she said without pausing.

“Why was that so easy for you?” I grumbled.

“Well, a sheath is always a professional choice. At least, more professional than a lace dress,” she pointed out.

I wiped the remnants of soap from my legs before stumbling back into look at the dresses on the bed. She was right. “Of course you’re right,” I said, frowning that it hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Lace does imply romance,” she continued, “so if you want to avoid speculation…”

“The sheath,” I agreed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Of course,” she said in a proud tone. “Then again, maybe…”

“Maybe what?” I asked as I picked up the Alexander McQueen to hang up in the wardrobe.

“Are you sure nothing is going on between you two?” she asked.

I took a deep breath to refrain from hanging up on her or screaming into the phone. “Nothing. Zero. Nada.”

“It’s just that you picked out the Alexander McQueen…”

“I only brought a few items. It was new.” Maybe we were going about this all wrong. Clearly, she needed to go work for the tabloids spinning stories from flimsy threads like wearing a lace dress out to dinner or choosing to shave one’s legs.

“You two would make a beautiful couple,” she started.

I think the fuck not. I kept this thought to myself and said, “Look, I need to run. I’ll call you later this week.”

“Call your sister and tell her to call me,” she shouted into the phone before I could hang up.

That was basically my position in life: carrier pigeon between my family members. It was like they were all incapable of talking directly to each other. Instead, they preferred to go through the medium of me. I tossed my mobile on the bed before carrying the lace dress to the closet, realizing I wanted to wear it. I hadn’t gone out with a guy in a long time. I’d been far too focused on my fledgling subscription company. But she was right. The ivory dress skewed a little too bridal for someone trying to keep things professional.

The red dress required very little to make it stand out. Despite its close fit, its skirt flared slightly, and that, combined with its long sleeves, kept it from looking too sexy despite its color. I’d brought even less by the way of shoes—only fifteen or so pairs. Thankfully, I had a strappy pair of Louboutin sandal-style heels. I pulled my hair down from its messy bun and fluffed it, pleased to discover it had curled while up. A few spritzes of texturizing spray and it hung in thick waves around my shoulders. After a quick glance in the mirror, I decided to stop there. Any more, and I was in danger of looking like I thought this was a real date. As it was, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be photographed with Anders. It would be enough to keep him eating out of my hand, but nothing about how I looked would encourage him past harmless flirting. I hoped. This morning’s unintentional orgasm could undermine plans. I couldn’t let it.