Dirty Seduction

The sales assistants are whispering. They beam as he shows them the collection, and then they chivvy me along to an empty cubicle at the back.

He waits for me, and I feel so self-conscious, trying on such beautiful clothes under harsh lighting. My skin looks pasty and pale, my eyes look tired and my hair looks wispy and fine. But the clothes. They look gorgeous.

I show him a tight pink cami over a pair of white jeans, and he likes them. He tells me so.

I try floaty dresses over tights, and he likes those more. I do a little twirl for him and he claps his hands and smiles at me.

He fetches me a fluffy white cardigan and it feels so soft against my skin.

He fetches me a winter duffle coat that makes me gasp when I see the price.

He fetches me a scarf and a cute winter hat with a pom-pom. Boots, too, and a sparkly pink pair of flats that make me feel like a little princess.

And then he makes me take everything, and I can’t, I really can’t. It brings tears to my eyes.

“My pleasure, Laine. Mine,” he says, and I have no words for that.

Nothing other than another thank you, and it always sounds so lame.

I’m still staring at the items in the basket when he piles more in. Night dresses, socks, and packs of knickers. He hovers by the bras, and I realize he’s waiting for me to tell him my size. I feel my cheeks burn as I pick out the very smallest one they do.

“I don’t have… much… up top,” I say, and try to make light of it.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I laugh a little. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” he says. “It isn’t. You’re perfect the way you are, don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”

My tummy flutters.

He thinks I’m perfect.

And I know it’s probably just a figure of speech, know he’s probably just being nice, saying things to make me feel better, but I wish he wasn’t.

I wish he meant it.

I picked out some bras, just plain white with a bit of lace. It’s what I usually wear, and I regret my decision for a moment, worried I’ve made a bad impression, that I should’ve chosen something more sexy, more… grown up.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Anything else you want, Laine? Anything at all?”

I shake my head and manage a smile. “I think you’ve just about covered it.

So many things… so many beautiful things…” He seems so pleased.

I can’t bear to watch as he pays. I stare at my pumps instead, anywhere but at the total balance as he hands over his card.

He carries the bags and asks me if we should carry on shopping. He’s worried, he says, worried that I won’t have enough clothes for the time being.

He has no idea that he’s already bought me more than I ever had in my wardrobe at home.

I tell him no, I tell him thank you, I tell him that he’s already done more for me than I can ever repay, and he settles on toiletries, and leads me around the beauty shop until I’ve placed everything I need in a trolley.

I hope he’s forgotten about the phone, but he hasn’t. Of course, he hasn’t.

It’s the first time I dig my heels in.

“Please,” I say. “It’s too much!”

“You have to have a phone, Laine,” he insists. “How will I be able to contact you otherwise? How will I know you’re safe?” If I’m safe.

I shrug. “I’ll borrow Kelly Anne’s if I need to.”

“Wrong answer,” he says, and marches me straight inside the shop.

The phone he chooses is ridiculously superior to the one stolen from me. It makes me cry stupid tears again, and I feel so overwhelmed, my belly full of this churning something. I can’t straighten it out.

“You can’t…” I say, and he takes my hand and squeezes it tight until I look at him.

“Do you like the phone, Laine?”

“The phone is amazing…”

“Then it’s yours, my treat.”

“But I…”

He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Laine, I want you to listen to me, can you do that?”

I nod. I could listen to him forever.

“Sometimes in life, you have to let people take care of you. Sometimes you have to accept that people want to help, and want to be there for you. Not people like Kelly Anne, who care only for themselves and their selfish pursuits, people who want to treat you nicely. You deserve to be treated nicely, Laine. I don’t think you know what it’s like to be cared for, not properly.”

“My mum, she…” I’m ready with the excuses again, but he silences me with a sigh.

“I want to take care of you, Laine. Will you let me?”

Those flutters in my tummy again. I don’t know what to say. I stare at him open-mouthed.

“If this is all too much, if you don’t want me to be there for you, you only have to say. I’ll book you into a hotel while the work is being done on your house. You can take the clothes, and the toiletries, and the phone, and I’ll drop you there and make sure I keep my distance. You won’t ever have to see me again, not if you don’t want to. I can just be the kind stranger who helps you when you need a friend. If that’s what you want.” He squeezes my hand again. “You only have to say the word.”

I stare. Mute. This terrible panic in my heart, a feeling of dread at the thought of him dropping me at a hotel and walking away.

“Laine?” he prompts, and I find the words.

“No!” I say, and my cheeks are burning. “Please. That’s not what I want. I want to stay with you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I slam my mouth closed, searing with embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t seem to care at all.

“Phew,” he says and pretends to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You had me worried for a second there.”

His eyes are kind and bright, and I see him afresh, all over again. He is perfect. The most perfect man I’ve ever met.