The Billionaire and the Virgin(13)
“He’s not my man,” Marjorie said, blushing.
“And he never will be with that kind of wardrobe,” Angie said in a practical voice. “Now, do you want to wear something that screams virgin, or do you want to wear something that screams confident woman?”
Well, when she put it that way, it was a no-brainer, wasn’t it? Marjorie grabbed the tunic top and went into the bathroom to change, and came out a moment later, chagrined and plucking at the silky material. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Why? Come show me. What’s wrong?” Angie gestured at the full length mirror on the far wall. “Come stand here.”
Marjorie did, miserable. The light, silky fabric of the tunic was loose at the collar and clearly made to be worn with a tank underneath. The collar dipped deep between her breasts, exposing her plain white bra. To make matters worse, the tunic itself was designed to be flowing and worn with leggings, so edges of the “skirt” only went to tall Marjorie’s upper thighs. She tugged at the back, sure that her ass was hanging out. “It needs layers.”
Angie thwapped her on the arm. “It doesn’t need layers, you prude!”
“You can see my bra!”
“You’re right.” She waved her hand. “Take the bra off and let’s look at it.”
“What? No!”
“Fine, fine,” Angie said, throwing her hands up. “You can wear this nice muumuu and tell me all about how he didn’t want to date you again.”
Marjorie swallowed hard and stared at her reflection. Rob was cocky, worldly. It was clear he wasn’t her type. Heck, she was so sheltered that she wasn’t even sure she had a type . . . which was kind of depressing. Would it really be so bad to wear a short dress out on a date? No one would see her except the guy she was trying to impress. She looked back at the dress that Angie was holding up—it was rather dowdy. With a sigh, Marj reached into the neckline of the dress and began to slip out of her bra. She tossed it on the ground a moment later and then they both looked at her critically in the mirror again.
Without the bra, her cleavage seemed to go on for miles . . . right on down to her belly button. She made an unhappy moan, but Angie clapped her hands. “Perfect!”
“It is?”
“Yes. Now show me your flats.”
Picking shoes was a special kind of hell. Since Marjorie figured nothing could hide her towering stature, she didn’t care about the height of her heels, and she loved a pretty pair of shoes. They were her favorite weakness like Angie’s was costume jewelry, but they didn’t see eye to eye when it came to picking footwear to go with her dress.
She still had the nude Louboutins that the bridesmaids were no longer going to wear in the wedding and that Brontë had suggested the women keep anyhow. Marj adored them, but Angie had taken one look at the stiletto heel and made unhappy noises, so she’d reluctantly put them aside for tamer wear. “What about these?” Marjorie held up a pair of strappy sandals with a wooden heel. “They match.”
“Goodness gracious, no,” Angie said, horrified. “Is that four inches? Girl, you’re going to tower over him as it is. No need emphasizing the flaws.” She picked up the only pair of flats Marj had brought. “You need to wear these. Trust me. No one wants to date Goliath, especially not a sexy man.”
Great. Now she was Goliath. And full of flaws. She felt rather homely at the moment, despite all the help to make her attractive for her date. “Flats it is. Thank you, Angie.”
“Of course, sugar.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Marjorie’s cheek. “Now I promised my son that I’d spend some time at the pool and relax. Can you handle your makeup and hair without me?”
Marjorie eyed Angie’s thick eyeliner and big, bouffant hair. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out. You go have fun.”
Angie beamed at her and waved. “Good luck on your date. Give me all the deets when you return.”
“I will.”
Her friend beamed, then left the room.
Marjorie sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Pale skin met her gaze everywhere she looked. Her boobs jiggled when she moved, and if she bent over even slightly, her butt was going to hang out of the back of the tunic. Worried, she looked over at her other dress choices, but Angie was right—they were frumpy and old-looking. She needed to be sexy if she was going to impress someone like Rob. Still, it was hard to be sexy in plain black flats when she was used to wearing heels. The flats made her feel ungainly, and she began to pull her hair up into a sleek knot, then shook her head and let it down again. Nope. A knot would just add another inch of height. That would be bad. She combed her hair into a loose, curling ponytail that lay at the nape of her neck and put on her makeup.
Her stomach was doing nervous flips in her belly. It had been late last night, and dark. Maybe . . . maybe Rob didn’t see how tall she was? Not that one could miss it, but you never knew. What if he took one look at her and regretted his offer for dinner?
She stared at her form in the mirror. Experimentally, she hunched down a few inches. Nope, too obvious. Nothing she could do about that. With a sigh, Marjorie straightened her shoulders and grabbed her handbag.
Time to meet her date. She crossed her fingers with a silent mental plea that he wouldn’t be horrified at the sight of her . . . and that there would be no stiff breezes that would show the world her panties.