Well Met(17)

“Um,” I said.

“Sorry.” He immediately spun around, turning his back to me, even though I was completely covered.

“No, no, we’re good here.” Stacey stepped back. “How does that feel?”

I extricated my hands from inside my dress and made sure I was tucked in before taking a breath, but it stopped about halfway through. Deep breaths were apparently off the menu. I tried smaller sips of air, breathing from the top half of my chest instead of from my diaphragm. Much better. I gave her a thumbs-up before adjusting the chemise until it sat even in a ruffle over my breasts.

And damn, said breasts looked pretty good. The tight lacing of the bodice had sucked everything in and pushed it all up, and . . . damn. I should look into wearing these all the time. Well, maybe not all the time. Breathing once in a while would be nice.

Stacey tilted her head to the side and surveyed my completed costume. “I like it. Just need to get some boots. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” I tried to look down at myself, but all I could see was cleavage cushioned in blue and white. “It feels okay. Kind of tight, but I think I can get used to it.” I looked up at her again and realized she wasn’t talking to me at all. Her gaze was to my right, where Simon turned back around to survey my completed outfit.

While he inspected me, I inspected him right back. He was usually so put-together, not a wrinkle in his clothes, a hair out of place. Not a single muscle relaxed.

Today he looked . . . slovenly. Instead of the meticulously put-together guy I was used to, he looked like he’d woken up late and thrown on the first clothes he’d found in the dark on the floor. Leather boots under faded black pants that had seen better days. They looked like sweatpants cut off at the ankles so they hung loose around the tops of his boots. A heathered gray-green T-shirt hung untucked over the pants. There wasn’t a neatly ironed garment or a vest to be seen. His hair seemed longer too, or maybe it was just a little mussed, and he had a few days’ growth of stubble on his face. For a split second I wondered if he was okay—had he been sick? I shook off the thought before I did something stupid like ask.

He chewed on his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes on my bodice, and I was starting to feel insulted. Couldn’t he drool over my cleavage a little bit? But I wasn’t a person to him. I was a cog in his Ren faire machine. We’d hardly spoken since that day in the bookstore.

Finally he nodded, a short jerk of his head. “It all looks fine. Hair?”

“Yes. This is my hair.” I gestured to the wavy brown mess in its usual ponytail, and Simon didn’t smile. Did he know how to joke? At all? “Okay, sorry. We haven’t talked about hair, but . . .” I pulled the elastic out of my hair and shook it out. “It’s long enough to pull back; I figured something like . . .” I gathered it all into a sort of knot at the base of my skull in illustration.

He nodded again, his eyes lingering on my hair for an extra moment or two. “That works.” He turned to Stacey, and I was dismissed in that moment. “How about you? Same costume as last year?”

“Yep, I haven’t had time to get anything new. Oh, but I bought a necklace from a vendor at the end of Faire last year. I was planning to add it.”

“What kind of necklace?” He looked skeptical, because jewelry was apparently a crime. “Wenches aren’t flashy, you know.”

“Aren’t flashy?” I would have laughed out loud if I’d had the lung capacity. But my laugh came out more like a wheeze. “I’ve got my boobs out for everyone to see. How is that not flashy?”

Simon kept his attention on Stacey, who answered his question as though I weren’t there. “It’s a pewter Celtic knot on a cord, nothing fancy.” Her fingers went to the base of her throat and tapped her collarbone. “It feels like I should have something here, you know? Like Emily says, we’re kind of out on display here, and it feels like a blank canvas.”

He cracked a smile, but only for a second. “I see your point. That’s fine. Names are finalized, right? Not changing them?”

“Of course not.” She smiled at him. “Sean gave me that name. I’m not changing it.”

“I didn’t think you would.” By the time he turned to me his smile had vanished, which was too bad, because he looked much better when he smiled. “How about you?”

“Still going with Emma.” For the first time, I sort of regretted my flippant response to this assignment. But I squared my shoulders and owned it. The girl who wore this outfit was Emma, and if he didn’t like it he could suck it.

He didn’t like it. His mouth twisted. “Are you taking this seriously at all?”

His vitriol was startling. “What do you mean?”

“Did you put any effort into picking out a name?”

This again? When Stacey had said it, it had been kind of funny. But she had been teasing. Simon sounded like I was working his last nerve by choosing a name that was so close to my own.

But now rage bubbled in my chest. “Not taking it seriously?” I spread my arms. “I’m standing here with my internal organs squeezed together. I’m pretty sure I can’t bend enough to sit down. And you’re going to give me shit about picking out a name?”

He practically flinched when I cursed, and his eyes darted around us. Ah, crap. I’d forgotten we were in a room full of kids.