Page 17 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

Her eyes narrow for a moment and she gives a nod, cracking a smile that sets my alarms off. Is there some kind of joke I’m not privy to?

“She needs some clothes.”

Emily’s eyes dart to mine, and the warm smile she offers dissipates the momentary anger brewing inside of me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Dylan.” Her pale blues flick to Ripley’s and back, not sparing my outfit a single glance. She keeps her hands clasped while my coat falls from my shoulders, and I glance back to see Rip folding it over his arm. “C’mon, let’s find you something to wear.”

Leading me toward the back of the building, I turn to see Ripley taking a seat on one of the couches lined against the wall.

The sliding of skin against mine flips my attention back to Emily who nudges my arms out to the side, cinching the T-shirt around my waist, and tips her head. “About a size six?”

“Yes.” I continue to hold my arms out until she spins around to the racks, pulling a variety of different shirts. As a clueless fashion dud, I let her decide which garments pair the best and patiently wait while she fills her arms with stacks of outfits.

Her chestnut color hair sits about shoulder-length and pin-straight—a total contrast to the waves of dirty blond that had my dad calling me his summer girl when I was little.

Emily is put together so well, I feel like a wild mess standing beside her.

As she reaches for another shirt, I lay a hand on her forearm, and she recoils, dropping the clothes to the floor in a heap.

Both of us bend forward to pick them up, and I straighten each garment fallen off the hanger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” she says, rubbing the place on her arm where I grabbed her.

The place I touched her.

I can’t help but wonder if Ripley’s told her about our arrangement and if she thinks I’m nothing but one of his cheap flings. Perhaps she doesn’t bat an eye at this whole situation because this isn’t the first time she’s dressed one of his fucktoys.

“I just … I didn’t want Ripley to spend so much on me.”

“Gabriel doesn’t pay.” Her gaze falls away from mine as she pushes up from the floor. “Follow me.”

Weird. This whole damn experience has been weird.

She leads me to a row of four small dressing rooms, each with their own long black curtains, and hangs the clothing onto the hooks inside.

I wait for her to exit the cramped room, and when she doesn’t, but instead stands with her arms behind her back, I step inside. “You don’t—I mean, I can. I can call you if I need another size or something.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, I understand.” She steps toward the curtain, and I throw out an arm, hesitating, before drawing it back to my side.

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean anything.”

“I just want to make sure nothing needs adjusting.” At a quick scan below, I see the pincushion attached to her wrist and the scars on the other side of it. Two jagged lines that look as though she tried to sew herself and snipped the thread away.

I curl my fingers beneath the T-shirt and pause. “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

To that, she gives a nod and turns around to face the curtain.

“It doesn’t bother me if you see. We’re both girls, right?” A nervous smile tugs at my cheeks but the oddity of all this leaves me frowning at the same time. “I just thought I’d mention it as a courtesy. So my breasts aren’t all up in your face.”

“It’s okay. I want to give you privacy.” She doesn’t turn to look at me at all while I remove my top and slip into the first outfit—completely braless and panty-less.

“I’m dressed.”

The moment she twists around, she reminds me of a spider, spinning me and pinching the fabric as she goes.

“You designed these clothes?”

A slight smile stretches her lips. “Yes. They’re all my design.” It makes sense now, the reason she’s so invested in how they fit, but her behaviors are still baffling. When she seems satisfied, she turns back to face the curtain, and I reach for another outfit.

“They’re beautiful,” I remark, pulling a cream, cable-knit sweater over my head.