Complete Me(28)

By the time she finally sweeps me into a dressing room that resembles a small hotel room, I have decided that I am not the expert shopper I always thought I was. She has completely exhausted me, and it is with both amusement and relief that I eye the bucket of ice that holds an uncorked bottle of champagne. There are two crystal flutes on a nearby marble table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. The juice is clearly to remedy the extreme drop in blood sugar brought about by too much exertion. The champagne is to loosen the wallet.

While I pour myself a mimosa—after all, my wallet was loose when I walked through the door—my personal shopper hangs negligees, nighties, and sultry camis on a bar. She places the monogramed canvas shopping basket on the floor. It is full to the brim with what might appear at first glance to be mere scraps of material, but actually constitutes a variety of sexy underthings. And should I become exhausted from climbing into and out of such decadent clothing, I can relax on the chaise lounge that dominates the back half of the dimly lit room.

If the lingerie business starts to stall, Marilyn’s can just rent out their dressing rooms as high-end housing.

The first outfit is made from a sheer black material that is so soft it feels as though I am wearing a cloud. It’s a little bit longer than a baby-doll style, hitting me just a bit higher than mid-thigh. It boasts a swishy skirt and a fitted bodice that manages to make my breasts—which aren’t too shabby to begin with—look even bigger and perkier. I hold the thong-style panties up to see the effect, and I have to admit I like it. And though I’m technically failing Lingerie Etiquette 101 by doing it, I go ahead and step into the thong. Why not, since I’ve already decided to buy the outfit?

The thong is little more than a tiny triangle of material held in place by a stretchy black string. I twirl slowly, checking out the look in the Hollywood diva style three-way mirror that stands in one corner of the room. Honestly, it doesn’t look half bad. More important, I think Damien will like seeing me in it—and seeing me out of it.

I’m grinning, and about to extricate myself from the bodice so that I can try on the next outfit, when the salesgirl taps on the door. “I found something else you might like. May I come in?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I tug the top back down so that I’m fully covered—at least as fully covered as one can be wearing a see-through, low-cut, semi-baby-doll nightie—and watch as she opens the door. I expect frills and lace and silks and satins. What I see instead is Damien.

“Oh!”

His eyes are fixed on my face, the near-black one seeming to reach all the way into my heart, and the amber one so soft with apology that I think I’m going to cry. He steps inside the room and my head goes weak, as if all the air has been sucked out of the space. “I thought you might need a second opinion,” he says, his mouth curving into a half-smile.

“I—yes. That would be great.” I am a tongue-tied mess. My gaze darts to the salesgirl, who grins and backs away, shutting the door behind her. “Um, are you allowed to be here?”

“Apparently I am.” He takes a step toward me, full of that Damien-esque arrogance I know so well.

I grin. In relief, in excitement, in joy.

“I’m sorry.” His simple words seem to burst with emotion.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say. His face doesn’t change, but I see the smile touch his eyes, and my relief grows exponentially. “How did you know where to find me?”




He moves forward again, this time stopping only inches from me. My body thrums merely from his proximity. I want to launch myself into his arms, but I stand motionless. Today, it must be Damien who makes the first move.