Page 17 of Theirs to Treasure
I check my watch. “I’ll be ready at eight.”
The gentlemen exchange glances.
“We’ll go with you,” Forrest says. His voice is firm, confident I won’t argue.
This man may be gorgeous, but he’s overbearing as fuck. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I’m a pretty good judge of what looks good on a woman’s body,” Zev supplies helpfully. “You’ll be faster if we’re there.”
I sigh. Together, they’re impossible. “Where are we going to dinner?” I’m surprised I’m thinking about agreeing.
“We’ll be staying on the property.”
“Which means it’s going to be fancy.” I wrinkle my nose. What else would I expect? These men didn’t blink at the size of my bar tab. And if two drinks had been four hundred dollars, how much is an elegant dinner? And the clothes I need will be extravagant. “Thank you for the offer. I’m going to pass.”
There are places—even drug stores—where I can find a T-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops for less money than the tax on something I’d wear to dinner with multimillionaires. Or are they billionaires?
Despite my upbringing, I wind a finger into one of the curls hanging next to my face.
At one time, I’d been comfortable around rich people.
Comfortable?
Hell, at one point, my family was considered rich, and I’d always thought we were.
But the reality is much, much different.
I graduated from college with a mountain of debt, and I’ve been taking care of myself, which has been a struggle.
The job I’d had working at a private museum didn’t pay much—but it was something my mother would permit me to do. As long as it appeared I was working for personal fulfillment rather than necessity, the family image was safe.
But the truth is, between loan repayment and the rent on my tiny, one-bedroom Houston apartment, I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck.
“We won’t hear of it,” Zev says. “You can return to reality tomorrow.”
Like Cinderella.
And right now, living in a fantasy is tempting.
Surely the whiskey is the reason I find myself wedged between the gorgeous men as we enter a boutique.
Forrest remains at my side, but Zev goes straight for a rack against the side wall.
“How about this one?” he suggests as he selects a short, black dress.
My God, it’s beautiful. Slinky and scandalous, with an open back at a very low-cut front.
“Feel it.”
The fabric is amazing. And costly.
“Try it on,” he urges, extending the hanger toward me.
“I shouldn’t.” Tempted, I worry my lower lip.
“It’ll look great on you.”
I don’t have that kind of confidence. The dress will hug my curves, and I normally select clothing that will minimize them. “It won’t fit,” I protest. “I need something bigger.”