Georgie had never set foot inside the local girlie boutique. But she could tell from the outside that it was a far cry from Second Chance Zelda’s. Yes, she was about to darken the doorway of Glitter Threads for the first time—which really shouldn’t have been so daunting. Most of Georgie’s outfits came in the form of used denim and unwanted sweaters, but clothes were clothes, right?
Still, she hesitated.
Time to play a round of What Would Bethany Do?
Georgie’s sister would sweep in and walk straight into a changing room, rattling off her measurements without looking up from her phone. Clothes would be brought to her for approval. No perusing racks for Bethany Castle. Oh no. She didn’t buy clothes. The clothes needed to be sold to her.
To be fair, Georgie could do things Bethany wasn’t capable of. She could juggle five oranges, could make scarves come out of people’s ears, and had the ability to stop a child’s tears in under five seconds. Her other non-clown-related skills included making her own bath bombs, gardening, and reciting dialogue from the classic Tom Hanks movie Splash. None of which gave her the push she needed into the shop. This should be easy. She’d even come bearing gifts.
Georgie looked down at the sea salt caramel mocha in her right hand, hoping Boutique Tracy wasn’t lactose intolerant. That would really put a damper on her apology. And Georgie definitely owed her one. The Just Us League meeting had left her with such a good feeling. The support of two women had really dragged her out of her gloom. Now here she stood outside this intimidating, hyperfeminine environment, ready to pay it forward.
“I’m going to count to three,” she whispered. “There will not be a four.”
As soon as the countdown ended, Georgie propelled herself into the shop, coming to a halt when she realized Boutique Tracy had been watching her from the other side of the glass the whole time.
“Well.” Georgie extended the coffee. “This is off to a great start.”
Tracy eyed the to-go coffee cup like it contained slugs. “Can I help you?”
“I just came in to apologize.” She turned in a circle, looking for a place to set down the coffee, deciding on a pretty shelf full of headband/scarf things and a fanned-out stack of the newest sex-themed issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. “You don’t have to accept. But what I did was really mean. I shouldn’t have lied and put you in an embarrassing situation. And I’m sorry about it.”
Nothing from Tracy. Not the slightest twitch.
“Okay, well . . . that’s a sea salt caramel mocha and it’s the shit. I’ll take a sip if you want to make sure it isn’t poisoned—”
“No need.”
Silence fell again. “Gotcha. I’ll be on my way.”
Georgie barely made it to the door when Tracy snagged her elbow. “Wait.” The other woman shifted on her feet. “I didn’t mean what I said about you having short legs.” She sniffed. “But you wear really unflattering pants. I can help you with that, though. Since you did bring me my favorite drink.”
“It’s so good, right?” Georgie whispered.
“Sinfully so.”
And just like that, Georgie was being dragged to the dressing room and stuffed inside. This wasn’t just your average dressing room with two hooks and a bench, though. An antique chair sat wedged in the corner beside a very flattering mirror. Her feet sunk into plush pastel carpeting. And the lighting. My God. This dressing room was an Instagram filter a girl could live inside. Woodsy potpourri smell emanated from all sides, but no matter how many times Georgie turned around, she couldn’t figure out where it had been stuffed.
Overall, it was nice. Really nice. Just standing in the room made her feel important.
“All right, bitch.” Tracy burst through the heavy velvet curtain with an armful of blouses, dresses, skirts, and those headband/scarf things. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”
Panic cut Georgie’s excitement in half. “I didn’t realize you’d have to see me naked. I’m wearing, like, the worst underwear you’ve ever seen.”
Tracy sighed. “Jessica! Panties!”
Thus the transformation began. Over the course of the next hour, Georgie was divested of every piece of clothing on her person, including her basic cotton underpants, sports bra, ancient Skechers, jeans, and hoodie. Left behind in their place, she was fitted with a matching purple silk bra and panty set, a black pencil skirt, a bright blue sleeveless blouse, and sparkling silver pointed-toe flats. Every time a new piece of the ensemble was added, she stood a little straighter. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? They let just anyone dress this fashionable? She looked . . . nice. Really nice.
“This is going to cost me big time, isn’t it?” Georgie said, staring at the unrecognizable girl in the mirror.
Tracy picked some lint off Georgie’s shoulder. “Don’t think of the numbers. Think about how you feel.”
“Easy for you to say, person who works on commission.” Although Georgie couldn’t help but admit . . . wow. Her legs didn’t look the least bit shrimpy now. Had her body always been this shape, or did the mirror possess magic, transformative qualities? The skirt rounded at her hips, cinching at her waist. She had pretty damn decent boobs, too! Who knew? She definitely wouldn’t get seated at the kids’ table in this outfit. Still, she couldn’t exactly dress this way at children’s birthday parties. “Where would I even wear this?”
Tracy groaned. “Why do women believe they need an occasion to dress up? Dress up for life, goddammit!” Finished with her dramatics, Tracy eyeballed Georgie in the mirror. “Any dates coming up, maybe?”
“Yes, actually.” It felt good being able to say that, even if she wasn’t totally sold on Pete.
“Well. There you go.” She circled around Georgie, tucking and smoothing. “And paired with a blazer, you could wear it for job interviews, business meetings . . . or just to make a certain someone jealous.”
“Like who?”
Tracy’s nonchalant sniff wasn’t convincing. “You helped the man fake an imaginary doctor’s appointment. I just thought there might be something there.”
“Oh no.” Georgie rushed to correct her, the tips of her ears heating. “No. He’s just my brother’s friend. The date is with someone else.”
A slow, devious smile lit up Tracy’s face. “Oh, really?”
Why did everyone seem to be in on a big secret except for Georgie? “Yeah.” Georgie turned to the side, a little alarmed over the tight material presenting her butt like baked goods in a display case, but she could go with it. “I guess I haven’t treated myself to nice clothes in . . . ever. I’ve never done this.” She fashioned a dramatic wrist to her forehead. “Tell me the damage and let’s get it over with.”
“Not just yet.” Tracy unzipped Georgie’s skirt. “We have a lot more to try on.”
“Aw, shit.”
By the time Georgie walked out of Glitter Threads, her credit card was playing taps. A bag full of luxurious, very un-Georgie-like clothes weighed down each arm as she walked out onto Main Street in her original pencil skirt outfit. Was it just her or were people staring? No. Definitely just her. Right? Granted, she knew almost everyone in town and they’d never seen her in anything but oversized sweaters and discount jeans. But when a repeat client of Georgie’s walked right past her on the sidewalk without saying hello, she was forced to wonder if she’d become unrecognizable. If so, wasn’t that just a little exciting?
Not that people had to spruce themselves up with expensive clothing and frilly panties to be important. Or even to feel good. But she’d spent her whole life buried under clown makeup and garage sale treasures, so presenting a new, more exposed version of herself made the pulse in her wrists beat faster, made tingles race up and down her back. For the first time in maybe forever . . . Georgie felt pretty. On the heels of standing up for herself to Travis, she couldn’t help but feel as if a new phase had begun.
Starting with today’s lunch date.
As she turned toward the municipal parking lot, though, her excitement dimmed a little. Pete seemed like a nice guy. A man dedicated enough to his child to hire a clown for her birthday party and record the whole three-hour affair on his GoPro. But every time she imagined sitting down across from someone in her new outfit, a cocky, blue-eyed womanizer stared back at her. Dammit.
With Travis’s likeness floating around in Georgie’s head, it took her a minute to realize the man in question was actually coming toward her from fifty yards away, flanked by two women. Cell phone pressed to his ear, he was at a seven out of ten on the annoyance meter, but they continued talking to him anyway. Or at him, rather. She’d witnessed this scene many times in her youth. Travis being fawned over sent a swift kick to her stomach, sharper and uglier than it used to. And yeah. Holy crap. She must be unrecognizable, because as she drew even with Travis beside her parked car, he caught sight of her and glanced away, before his gaze came zipping back.
The hand holding his phone dropped to his side. “Georgie?”
Feeling like an impostor in her new clothes, while the women surrounding Travis made their fashion choices seem so effortless, she moved to unlock her car. She didn’t want to watch him get fawned over. She just wanted to get the hell out of there. “Hey.”
“Hey?”
Travis blocked her path to the trunk and tipped her chin up with a finger, narrowing her universe down to that single touch. The stubble on his cheeks and crispy aftershave. Damn him.
“Who are you and what did you do with Georgie Castle?”
“She’s in here somewhere.” Georgie backed away with a gulp, but the warmth of his finger remained imprinted on her skin. With Travis standing in front of her, it was impossible to pretend she was excited for her date with Pete. “I decided to send my overalls back to the nineties.”
Behind him, the women sort of milled around for a moment, then scooted off in a jumble of harried whispers. He didn’t seem to notice or care, sounding kind of dazed. “Why are you dressed like . . . like . . .”
The straps of the heavy bags were starting to leave indentations on her arms, so she set them down on the pavement. “Like what?”
“So pretty,” he rasped.
Oh. This was why women carried travel vibrators. One smoky word out of Travis’s mouth and her thighs went shaky. Moisture gathered on her brand-spanking-new panties—Jesus, don’t think about spanking. Shoot. Too late. Travis’s hands were so big. They would definitely leave a mark. Jumping the gun much? She hadn’t so much as gotten naked with a man, let alone had one spank her. She might not even like it. But she was certainly thinking about it. Was it possible the fancy clothes were making her hornier than usual? Not the point. The point was Travis Ford had just referred to her as pretty and he’d sounded like he’d been holding back more. Was this real life?
“Thank you. It turns out they make clothes that actually fit a person’s body. You learn something new every day.” Why was she talking to Travis about her body? He was going to think she was purposefully calling his attention to it. As in flirting. She had no business flirting with a man who’d probably witnessed and participated in the finest flirting on God’s green earth. “I have to go.” She pressed a button on her key ring and popped the trunk, but Travis beat her to scooping up the shopping bags. “Can you just throw them in . . .”
Whatever he saw in the bag made his brow furrow. Georgie would put a hundred dollars on it being the panties with the golden rose pattern, because such was life. Honestly, he already knew about Dale, though, so what was a little more humiliation at this point? Instead of panties, he pulled out a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine instead, which she did not remember agreeing to buy. Boutique Tracy strikes again. Travis turned the glossy magazine around, the words “Have Sex Like a Porn Star” emblazoned across the top in bright neon pink.
“Doing a little studying?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, an unwelcome awareness seeming to creep over him. “Why are you dressed up? What’s the occasion?”
“Why can’t life be the occasion?” She quickly waved a hand. “Sorry. I’ve been in a potpourri-scented girl palace for an hour. I’m high on pheromones.”
Travis, silent and frowning at her legs, was clearly still waiting for an answer. She most certainly did not owe him one, but it wouldn’t hurt to walk away on friendly terms. “I went into Glitter Threads to apologize to Boutique Tracy, and she dressed me up in exchange for a sea salt caramel mocha, okay? And . . . I like it. She told me my legs aren’t actually short, which I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve been kind of obsessing about.”
“Didn’t I tell you your legs were—”
“Normal. You said they were normal.” She turned away from his deepening scowl and closed the trunk on her purchases. “I’m late for a date. See you around, Travis.”
When she moved to open her driver’s-side door, Travis’s hand appeared above her head and smacked down to keep it closed. “Hold on there, baby girl. We’re not done.”
Georgie spun on Travis, surprised to find him so close. “Um. Wh-why is that?”
“Look. About the other night at your place. I acted like a dick.” The sincerity in his eyes held her still. Still and trying not to swoon into the gutter, where she would eventually be carried away to the ocean. “I’m sorry, okay? You can stop punishing me for it now.”
Confusion slipped in. “How am I punishing you?”
Travis pushed off the car and crossed his arms. “For a while there I couldn’t walk two feet without tripping over you. Now nothing.” A vein stood out on his temple. “What’s this about a date?”
Georgie didn’t know where to lend her focus. The fact that Travis actually apologized to her, or him noticing her absence and appearing to dislike it. Or his growly bear attitude. Him caring enough to question her at all seemed surreal. “You didn’t seem to want me around.”
“Is that how it seemed?” His cheek twitched. Twice. “Huh.”
The alarm on her cell phone started to chime in her bag, signaling that she had only fifteen minutes before her lunch date with Pete. Truthfully, she was grateful for the escape. Life was not making sense right now. She had to be reading into Travis’s apology the wrong way. He didn’t miss her. Stop dreaming, Georgie. There was a perfectly nice gentleman waiting for her. One who’d never treated her like a rebellious child or disappointed her. Yes, she needed to douse the growing flame of excitement over Travis finally seeming to give a rat’s behind about her and vamoose. Before she got any ideas about fanning it.
“I’m late.” It took an effort to turn away from Travis’s scrutiny, but she managed to twist and open the driver’s-side door. Unfortunately, Travis stepped closer to Georgie at that exact moment and the door rammed hard into his shoulder. He hissed a breath. Her heart stopped beating. She spun back around—and found Travis clutching his right shoulder. The shoulder. The one he’d torn the rotator cuff on, followed by multiple surgeries and eventually being cut from the Hurricanes.
“Oh my God.” Had she just inadvertently hurt him all over again? “Oh . . . oh my God. Is it okay?” Her hands were shaking as she reached for his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I—I . . .”
Travis shook his head but didn’t push her hands away. “It’s fine. Just a twinge.” He looked up, seeming to realize how upset she was. “This thing is pinned and screwed down in so many places, a wrecking ball couldn’t break it. Just needs a little ice.”
“You’re supposed to ice an injury right away.” She looked around. “Where’s your truck?”
“I walked.”
“Come on.” She took his good elbow and guided him to the passenger side, opening the door. “It was my fault. I’ll drive you.”
“No, it wasn’t . . .” He trailed off when her phone alarm went off again—chime-chime-chime—a crease forming between his brows. “You’ll cancel the date?”
“Obviously.” Impatient to fix the harm she’d done, Georgie poked Travis until he gave in and folded his big body into her passenger seat. “I’ll never make it now.” She whipped out her phone and fired off a quick apology to Pete. “Let’s go.”
Travis stretched his long legs and fastened the seat belt with a click. If Georgie didn’t know better, she’d think the injury had relaxed him. He dispelled that notion with a long-suffering sigh. “If you insist, Georgie.”
