Candy looks up at me, frowning. “But you’re…”
“I’m in shape, yes,” I say, then grin and flex one of my arms. “But the average couture model is a teenager with no muscles. I have these to wrap.”
Candy’s hand slips over my bicep, almost as if without realizing it, and squeezes the firmness of my muscles. I have to tell myself to keep it together. We’ve got a way to go yet before I can rip her clothes off.
“Come on,” I tell her. “The personal stylists there can pick out something that will suit you, no matter what you look like. With a body like yours, they’ll have a field day. You’re going to look so incredible.”
Candy brightens a little and allows me to lead her down the street until we step inside. There, I greet my usual stylist, a man who in turn recommends us someone from womenswear who comes highly rated. I sit down in an armchair and grab a men’s health and style magazine from the side table outside the dressing rooms, prepared to wait for as long as it takes for Candy to go through the styling process.
I lose myself in reading the articles, finding out some tips about the latest smart gadgets for the gym. I want Candy to take as much time as she needs, so I’m not watching the clock – and I’m definitely not looking into work stuff just because I have a minute to myself. Some things are more important, and I need to be ready to give her my undivided attention when she’s ready for it.
To my surprise, that doesn’t take long at all. It’s only a short while before the stylist ushers her into a changing room weighed down with several hangers, and I give her a brief smile to reassure her that everything is still fine. It’s not very long after that that she emerges from the changing room with her first look on, a dress that clings to her curves and then flares out, with clear inspiration from the 1950s.
And I can’t get my jaw to lift up off the floor.
“Well?” Candy says, turning in a few different directions so that I can see every angle of it. “What do you think?”
“Put it behind the counter,” I tell the stylist.
“What? Why?” Candy asks.
“Because it’s as good as bought,” I tell her with a wolfish grin. “What’s next?”
Candy giggles and disappears back behind the heavy velvet curtain, and I hear the stylist murmuring to her along with a number of zips opening and closing before it opens again. This time, she’s a femme fatale in sleek black velvet, hanging low at her neck with open shoulders and then hugging her hips to end at the knee. She’s like a goddess from an old movie, and I can’t help but stare at her.
“You’re exquisite,” I tell her, making her blush and laugh again. “We’ll take this one as well.”
“Oh, no, we can’t buy another,” Candy says. “You’ve already picked one.”
“Who says I can’t buy as many as I like?” I ask her, with a steely expression so she knows I won’t be moved on this. “Try on the next one. I have a feeling I’m going to like it, too.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Candy says. “I can’t try on any more. You’ve already put aside too much.”
“Candy,” I say evenly, looking at her over the top of the magazine. “I want to spoil you. You’re not going to deny me what I want, are you?”
Candy’s face colors bright pink and she bites her lip. “No,” she says, slowly. “I wouldn’t want to do that.”
I drop the magazine onto my lap to cover any embarrassing signs of the effect her obvious innuendo has on me. “Good,” I say, briskly. “Then try on the next outfit. I won’t tell you to rush – we’ve literally got all day.”
And Candy giggles and goes back behind the curtain, and I relax back in my chair, satisfied that she’s, at last, doing as she’s told and having a good time.
We end up leaving the boutique with several bags piled under our arms, and I lead Candy back to the car. The time has drawn on faster than I realized, and it’s almost dinnertime; I hand the bags to Bernard so that he can stash them in the trunk of the car as I get into the backseat next to her, and then direct him to drive us to an address I had prepared.
“What do you think?” I ask Candy, running a finger over the black velvet on her leg. “Happy?”
“Very happy,” she breathes, touching the fabric herself as if she can’t quite believe the new dress she’s wearing. “You didn’t need to do all of this for me.”
“I know I didn’t need to,” I say, leaning in to kiss her exposed shoulder. “I wanted to. You make me feel generous.”