Samantha claps her hands giddily. “Ooh, the claws are out! Let’s get this party started! Bring the champagne too, Brenda.”
“I’ll do that first. I know how you are, Samantha,” she teases with a wink, seeming much friendlier and more helpful now.
When she disappears, Sam starts shopping in force. Walking to the nearest rack, she begins flipping through the dresses. “First off, good job standing up for yourself with Brenda.”
The compliment is appreciated. Sam knows that on the pages of Alphena, I can do or say anything, but in real life, it’s another matter altogether. One I’m working on. But she’s not done. “Second, you need something that’ll knock Carter on his ass.”
“What? No, I don’t,” I warn. “I need something appropriate for dinner. That’s it. Carter has nothing to do with it.”
“Your husband has nothing to do with it?” Samantha taunts.
Husband.
My fake husband, Carter Harrington, my brother’s best friend.
This is nothing like me. I don’t do wild, outlandish things. I’m boring as hell, disappearing into a world of my own creation with Alphena for days or weeks on end.
Panic shoots through me. “Oh, my God!”
Brenda pops up like a groundhog from a rack across the room. “Everything okay, ladies?”
Samantha waves her off. “Yeah, we’re good. She just realized that she’s gonna need to shave her kitty cat before dinner.”
Brenda blinks, clearly shocked but fighting to keeping a neutral face. “I could have the drugstore deliver . . . uhm, supplies?”
“You’re a doll, but no need. The dinner is tomorrow. She’ll take care of things tonight.”
With a grateful nod, Brenda disappears back into her search.
“Samantha.” I shake my head, my eyes unfocused as I realize the full scope of what I’ve promised to do. In the moment, the possibility of seeing the art got to me, but this is so much bigger than that. I have to play the part of Carter’s wife. And I couldn’t be a worse match for a man like Carter. Nobody will believe he and I are a couple.
“I told you this whole thing is absurd,” Samantha says, “and that’s saying something, when even I’m reigning you in. I’m usually the one telling you to get out there and experience life, not just draw about it.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I confess.
“Not like this, you can’t,” Brenda interrupts, walking up with an armful of dresses. “But there’s not much you can’t do in the right outfit. Let’s go.”
Numbly, I follow her to the fitting rooms and let her help me into a dress. I instantly feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s closet, but Brenda exclaims, “This is so you!”
She doesn’t even know me. That’s obvious given this red dress with a neckline somewhere below my sternum.
Back in the shop, Samantha bursts out in laughter. “If you were going to a strip club, that’d be perfect. But for dinner? Absolutely not. Your tits, while fabulously motorboat worthy, are one breath away from popping out. Venus may’ve free boobed it, but you cannot.”
Around ‘strip club’， I’m offended, but by the time Sam mentions Venus . . . “You do listen to me when I talk about art, don’t you? That’s so sweet.” Touched, I place my hands over my heart and find bare skin. “Oh!” My breasts are not just showing off, they’re showing out.
“Of course I listen,” she preens. “Now take that off.” She wiggles her fingers at me to shoo me back to the fitting room, and I hear her tell Brenda, “Less slutty, more sensual.”
I try on a few more dresses, each of them okay but not it. Until the last one.
“Carter’s jaw is going to hit the floor when you walk out in that. It’s perfect.”
When I look in the mirror, I think Samantha and Brenda might actually be right. I never think of myself as a sexy woman, but in this green dress, I am. My curves are whiplash worthy, my breasts are pushed up to be shapely but not overly exposed, and my ass is guaranteed to bounce a quarter. Best of all, the knee-length skirt and short sleeves keep it modest enough for dinner at the Cartwright estate.
When Brenda walks off to look for jewelry, Samantha purses her lips. “Okay, you’ve got the body armor for dinner, but are you sure about this?”
Looking at my reflection, I’m more ready than I was before we got here, but still . . . “No, not at all sure. But ugh . . .” I groan. “Sam, some of the pieces in this collection haven’t been seen in decades. The list of what Thomas Cartwright purchased, as well as his own paintings, is more supposition than fact. The last time I saw even a guess at a list was when Art World did a story about an insurance company agreeing to cover the collection, and a few of the pieces were named. Now I have a chance to see them first-hand, with Elena Cartwright herself as a tour guide. As crazy as it is, I have to do this or I’ll never forgive myself.”
Samantha tilts her head, mulling over what I’ve said. Finally, she says, “Okay, if you say so. But I’m not talking about the art. I’m talking about Carter. You’re stepping into dangerous territory with a man like that. I mean, he’s . . . him.”
“I know, and I’m me,” I say bitterly, turning away from the mirror. “I’m out of my league.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she corrects firmly. “I’m worried about Carter.”
“You think I can’t handle him?”
“I think he’s a do-or-die businessman who’s obviously willing to go to major lengths and lie through his professionally-whitened teeth without losing a wink of sleep at night. But that’s not how you operate. I want you to be careful with him. Don’t get caught up in this husband-and-wife act.”
“I’ll be careful,” I vow. “This is solely about the art for me. I have no plans of falling for Carter Harrington. He’s too old for me and too focused on business. He’s one of those guys who only date gorgeous, debutante types and probably think graphic novels like Alphena are silly stories for kids. I honestly don’t like him very much.”
“But he’s, and I quote, ‘a good kisser’，” she reminds me.
“A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.” I shrug noncommittally.
Samantha frowns. “You’re lying to the wrong person here, Luna. A kiss is the physical meeting of two souls, sharing time, heat, and space. Their breath becomes one as their bodies react to one another. Don’t simplify or degrade something so vital.”
Her words are poetic and make my whole body go liquid, but she’s missing a key factor. “If the people are kissing as part of a relationship, whether a momentary or permanent one, that’s true. But a kiss can also be just a kiss. No meaning, no souls, no promises. Just a touching of lips, no different from bumping into someone on the sidewalk.”
Sam sighs heavily, unconvinced but not willing to argue further. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
The promise is heavy, even as I pay for the dress, shoes, and jewelry using Carter’s Amex card, but I keep reminding myself . . . the Thomas Cartwright collection.