Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(23)

Steven took a few garments from a helpful saleswoman, closed the door, and hung them on the double wall rack. “The person in that mirror is not your adversary.”

“No, at the moment that would be you.”

Steven grinned. “Start trying on dresses.” He took the dresses I had chosen and began to walk out.

“Why are you taking those away?”

“Because you’re not wearing black to Hollis Warner’s party.”

“Black is slimming. It’s a power color.”

“In New York. In Houston, color is a power color.” The door closed behind him.

The saleswoman brought a long-line bustier bra and a pair of high heels and left me in privacy. I undressed as far as possible from the three-way mirror, hooked the placket at the back of the bra, and twisted it around to my front. The bra, with its boning and angled seaming, hoisted my breasts to shameless prominence.

I took the first dress from the hanger. It was a canary-yellow sheath with a beaded bodice and a stretch satin skirt. “Yellow, Steven? Please.”

“Any woman can wear yellow if it’s the right shade for her coloring,” he said from the other side of the door.

I struggled into the gown and reached back to the zipper. It refused to budge. “Come in, I need help with the zipper.”

Steven entered the room and gave me an assessing glance. “Not bad.” Standing behind me, he closed the back of the dress with difficulty.

Tottering toward the mirror, I struggled to breathe. “Too tight.” I was suffused with gloom as I saw the strained and distorted seams. “Could you get me the next size up?”

Steven lifted the tag dangling from one armhole and frowned as he read it. “This is the largest size it comes in.”

“I’m leaving now,” I informed him.

Steven unzipped me decisively. “We’re not giving up.”

“Yes, we are. I’m going to wear the dress I already have.”

“It’s gone.”

“What do you mean, it’s gone?”

“Right after we left, I texted Sofia and told her to get rid of it while you were out. You’re at the point of no return.”

I scowled. “I’m going to kill you with one of these stiletto heels. And I’m going to kill Sofia with the other one.”

“Try another gown.”

He left the dressing room while I fumed and reached for a floor-length aqua silk with an overlay of silver-beaded organza. The gown was sleeveless with a V neck. To my relief, it slid easily over my hips.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you this,” I said. “Did Sofia really try on clothes in front of you?”

“Yes,” Steven replied from the other side of the door. “But she wasn’t naked, she was wearing underwear.” After a pause, he added in a preoccupied tone, “A matched set. Black lace.”

“Are you interested in her?” I asked, slipping my hands through the armholes and pulling up the rest of the dress. At his silence, I said, “Never mind, I know you are.” I paused. “And it’s not all one-sided.”

His tone was decidedly less casual as he asked, “Is that opinion or confirmed fact?”

“Opinion.”

“Even if I were interested in her, I never mix work with my personal life.”

“But if you —”

“I’m not discussing Sofia with you. Are you almost done?”

“Yes, I think this one may actually fit.” I wriggled to zip up the back. “You can come in.”

Steven entered the dressing room and glanced over me approvingly. “This works.”

The weight of the geometric-patterned beading made the gown pleasantly slinky. I had to admit that the modified Empire cut of the gown flattered my shape, the flared fullness of the skirt balancing my proportions.

“We’ll have alterations cut it to knee-length,” Steven said decisively. “Legs like yours should be flaunted.”

“It’s a nice dress,” I admitted. “But the color is too bright. It competes with my hair.”

“It’s perfect with your hair.”

“It’s not me.” I turned and gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m not comfortable in something that makes me look so…”

“Confident? Sexy? A dress that encourages people to look at you? Avery… nothing interesting ever happens to people who stay in their comfort zones all the time.”

“Having gone outside my comfort zone in the past, I can say with authority that it’s an overrated experience.”

“All the same… you’re never going to get what you want if you refuse to change. And we’re not even talking big changes here. These are clothes, Avery. It’s minor stuff.”

“Then why are you making such a big deal out of it?”

“Because I’m tired of seeing you dressed like a Viking nanny. And so is everyone else. You’re the last person on the planet who should be hiding her figure. Let’s buy you a nice dress, and maybe some designer jeans and a couple of tops. And a jacket…”

In no time at all, Steven had enlisted the help of two saleswomen who proceeded to fill the dressing room racks with a rainbow of garments. The three of them informed me that I had been buying bigger sizes than I needed, in styles that were the opposite of what someone with my body shape should wear. By the time Steven and I left Neiman Marcus, I had bought the aqua dress, a print blouse, a couple of silk-blend tees, designer jeans and slim-fitting black pants, silk shorts, a plum-colored leather jacket, an open peach cardigan, an eggshell-white skirt suit, and four pairs of shoes. The outfits were sleek and simple, with waist-defining silhouettes.