Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“I don’t have anything of mine there anymore.” I haven’t in a long time.
He looks down at me, stroking his chin. “I could ask Polina… she’s the closest and would be quickest at picking something out. Let me try her.” He pulls out his phone and sends a text.
A minute later, he shakes his head. “That’s not gonna work. She’s out and won’t be home for another hour.”
I look down at myself. I only have to look the fool in the first place we go. After that, it should be easy enough for me to find something to pull on.
“Wear my jacket,” he says at the very same time I say, “I could wear something of yours.”
My cheeks flush, and he nods. “It’s decided, then. Here.” Shrugging out of his leather jacket with one fluid motion, he removes it and holds it out to me. He doesn’t just hand me the jacket but holds it the way a gentleman would for a woman. He lifts it up so I can slide my arms in the sleeves.
It’s warm and smells like leather, snow-capped mountains, and the smoky, woodsy scent of fire. I turn away so he doesn’t see me inhale.
It feels so wrong to allow myself to be attracted to him at all, but I’m not a robot.
And he’ll be… my husband. I haven’t allowed myself to focus on what that will mean.
I walk side by side with him to the car. Wordlessly, he opens the door for me.
So many questions are teeming in my mind I barely know how to begin. Though Viktor scares me, and I have a feeling I haven’t even seen the half of it yet, I’m starting to feel a bit more at ease with him than the others.
We drive in silence until he pulls into a parking space just outside a strip mall. “Any of these places look good?” He gestures to a few boutiques. “We know someone who owns this one here.”
He points at a place with high-heeled shoes and purses in a large window. This shit’s pricey. My family was well off, but nothing like some of the families I knew. More to the point, I’ve been independent and haven’t taken their money in a very long time. I thrust my chin out.
“It looks fine, but I’m going to pay you back. Just because I don’t have money on me right now doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”
“Like hell, you’ll pay me back,” he says, shaking his head. He opens the car and comes over to my side, but I quickly open it before he can get the satisfaction of doing it for me. I still don’t trust him.
I step quickly out of the car and walk with him toward the little boutique. I’m nervous about what will happen next after I get dressed, and I want this part over with.
It feels a bit strange to be walking into a boutique with him. He isn’t the type who fits into a place like this. Men who go boutique shopping with a woman should be pretty and refined, well-manicured and shellacked. He’s so big he has to duck to walk through the door. A five o’clock shadow ghosts his chin already, and when we enter, a woman with a baby in a carriage draws in a sharp breath and takes off without a backward glance.
Yeah, he’s that terrifying.
“Mr. Romanov.” A tall, older woman, who could be my grandmother, approaches us on silver stilettos. Her hair’s trendy and short, a bit spiky, and she wears diamond studs that accentuate the crisp navy of her tank and pencil skirt. “Rosa told me to expect you. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already taken the liberty of pulling out some clothes that might suit the occasion, as I know you’re pressed for time.” She holds out her hand to me. “My name is Opal. So pleased to meet you.”
I take her warm, confident hand and return the gesture. “I’m Lydia.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lydia,” she says with utter grace, as if I’m the Queen of England and didn’t just walk into her high-end boutique in a tattered dress covered by a man’s worn leather jacket.
“Rosa’s a family friend,” Viktor says in a low rumble. He places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the back of the shop. “She’s the owner and a friend of ours. I texted her. She’s in Boston but said Opal will take good care of you.”
I nod, allowing myself to be escorted, as I do a quick sweep of the boutique and the kinds of clothes they have.
It’s filled with racks of beautifully crafted garments that smack of sophistication and comfort. They’re chic and timeless, with soft, high-quality fabrics and an array of earthy and neutral tones. These are not factory-made or fast fashion designed for skinny mannequins but garments that hint at understated luxury made for real women.