P.S. You're Intolerable (The Harder They Fall, #3)(54)

“I’m told you need to approve my clothing,” I said.

“I asked to see, not approve.” He scanned me from head to toe, but his expression was so inscrutable I had no idea what his opinion was. “Do you like this?”

“I think so.” I spun around to look at myself in the wall of mirrors, trying to focus on the cloth, not be critical of my wild hair and the shadows beneath my eyes.

The pants hugged my butt just right and came up high on my waist, giving me an hourglass shape. The cardigan’s green shade set off my hair. I looked good.

“That’s your color,” Elliot said. “I’m relieved to see you in something other than black.”

I met his gaze in the mirror. “You have a lot of opinions about my clothes.”

He grimaced. “You kept tugging at that dress, Catherine. You were obviously uncomfortable, and I want you to feel good. But I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m sorry.”

“You should have.” I ran my hands from my ribs down to my hips. “I don’t hold a grudge, Elliot. You hurt my feelings then, but you’ve more than made up for it.”

“Maybe I have, but in my experience, saying the words when I’m in the wrong is important to getting right with each other.”

“Well then, we’re right with each other.”

He answered with a slight smile, averting his gaze back to Joey. “Try more on, but you’re definitely getting that outfit.”

I wasn’t in the mood to argue—even though I would not be buying these gloriously luxe and shockingly expensive clothes—and went back into the dressing room to try on more.

Next was a knee-length charcoal-gray jumper with a white ruffle-sleeve blouse. Elliot voted yes. By the third outfit, which he also claimed I was getting, I began to think he would be a fan of everything I tried on.

To be fair, I was too, but at these prices, I could maybe afford a pair of socks.

Nan held up a black dress. “You need something to wear when you’re not in the office. Try this on.”

The material was slippery silk. I had to stop myself from reaching out to touch it. It wouldn’t be mine, so feeling how fine the material was would only torture me more.

I bunched my hands at my sides. “No, Nan, I have a baby. I don’t wear slinky little dresses.”

“I have had three babies and I’m still sexy as hell.” She shoved the dress at me. “Just give it a whirl. You won’t be able to resist yourself in it.”

She didn’t give me a choice, manhandling me into the dress. I’d already given up hope of her not seeing me in my underwear. That ship had sailed after the first outfit. And she was so matter of fact about it, I didn’t have a chance to feel self-conscious in front of her.

She pushed me out from behind the curtain before I could even look at myself, and there was nowhere to hide from Elliot’s sweeping stare.

“HI.” I ran my hands over my hips, the fabric just as soft and flowy as it looked. “Nan made me wear this. I’m sure it looks stupid, so I’ll just go take it off as soon as she lets me back in the dressing room.”

“No.” He launched to his feet and ate up the distance between us in a handful of strides. Taking my bare shoulders in his hands, he peered down at me and spoke so softly I had to hang on every word. “You need to look at yourself, Catherine. There is absolutely nothing stupid about the way you look right now.”

He spun me around to face the mirror, but I wasn’t looking at my reflection. All I saw was Elliot. For one fleeting, unguarded moment, his gaze filled with such heat and tenderness I felt it like an avalanche of flames rolling down my body.

A whimper fell from my parted lips.

His eyes met mine.

“Elliot.”

His hand slid from my shoulder, across my chest, up my throat to my chin. Gripping it firmly, he faced me toward the mirror.

“Look, Catherine. See yourself.”





Chapter Twenty-two





Elliot





Catherine had stunned me from the first time I saw her, but for a long time, I hadn’t allowed myself to look at her. It was the only way I’d been able to work with her every day. Blocking out the vast majority of her exterior was how I’d managed to keep her for so long.

But the woman before me had rendered me incapable of looking at anything but her.

It wasn’t the dress, though the way it draped over her generous heart-shaped ass and round hips was nothing short of fine art. It wasn’t the tattoos, which were more extensive and colorful than I’d expected from the few glimpses I’d caught over the last year, stretching over her shoulders and across her upper back. It wasn’t even the way her chest rose dramatically as she inhaled a deep breath, forcing her breasts to press against the thin fabric.

All of that was hot, sexy, gorgeous, but she’d always been those things, and I’d been able to blind myself to it. Until now.

She had decimated my resolve with a thousand cuts. The curly wisps of hair around her face were the most persistent slices against my walls. Then there was the press of her lips, the light that always danced behind her eyes when she internally cussed me out. How she handled difficult men, including me. Her ability to be soft and strong all at once. The postscripts. Goddamn postscripts.