I feel her eyes on me, and I look down, seeing a little gleam in her eye. Kind of amused, but mostly a warning that she’s making a mental note of all the shit I say to her for a rainy day.
I’m shakin’, Liv. Really, I am.
“If I take off the stockings,” I explain. “I won’t be properly dressed. The women in my world are ladies, Olivia.”
“You’ll feel it on your legs, though.” She looks back down to her task. “It’ll change how you carry yourself.”
“What will? The sticky, noxious sweat of Florida in springtime on my naked thighs?”
The debutante ball is in May. The humidity will be a nightmare, despite the air-conditioned banquet hall hosting it. Like she knows anything.
“Afraid I might be right?” she taunts.
I roll my eyes. Please. The only thing I’m afraid of is wasting time.
But I stand there, letting my hair fall down my back again, and watch her. I’m not sure why, but I kick off my heel and set the ball of my foot on her knee.
Prove it, then.
Tipping her head back, she looks up at me, her honey-brown eyes unblinking.
“I can’t bend over in this dress,” I tell her.
Fisting the skirt in my hands, I start to pull it up, past my knees, and up my thighs to where the garter secures the stockings.
She holds my gaze for another moment, and then she reaches up, unfastening the clips.
Her fingertips brush the skin on the inside of my leg, and my flesh pebbles, chills breaking out everywhere. I draw in a sharp breath, and she darts her eyes up to mine, as still as me.
“I don’t have all day,” I chide, trying to hide my reaction.
Her chest rises and falls slowly, and then she peels the stocking down my leg and off my foot, followed by the other one, both of my shoes laying strewn on the floor with the nylons.
Walking to a nearby shelf, she scans the heels and grabs a pair, pointing to the chair near the mirror.
Indulging her, I step off the riser and have a seat as she plops down on the floor and searches for my right foot under the dress.
I hike up the skirt again as she slips the heel on, almost amused that she refuses to look. I know she wants to. My legs are one of my best attributes. She’s looked at them before.
It’s amazing she’s endured me as captain of the lacrosse team this year, especially when she’s probably the better player, and I haven’t made anything easy on her.
But that’s how it is. Effort, focus, hard work…they mean very little when you’re lucky like me. Saints don’t mix with swamp trash, and while Reva Coomer may be the coach, I’m the leader. Everyone follows me.
I gaze at her as she straps the heels on me, the tiny mole on her face, between her ear and the hollow of her cheek, bringing out the gold in her skin. I’ve never noticed that before.
She puts my foot back down, and I draw in a breath, standing up and heading back to the riser again. The dress rubs against the sensitive skin of my legs, now bare, and it’s as if every inch of my body is alive and aware of itself.
Almost like I’m naked in my bed, only feeling the sheets.
Holding up my skirt, I look in the mirror, the gold heels with the thin, jeweled straps making my skin glow, and I fight not to smile, because they feel and look worlds better than the other shoes.
However…
“They don’t go with the dress,” I tell her.
But I’m hardly surprised she’s so bad at this, given the shit she wears.
I reach around my back, trying to untie the corset.
“You’re right,” she says. “You need a new dress now.”
I almost snort. Well, we agree on that.
Unable to reach the laces, because the corset is too tight for me to move, I twist around, planting my hands on my hips.
“Unlace it.”
She steps up, pulling the bow and loosening the corset, so I can push it down and off my body.
“Tell Lavinia to call me when the alterations are done,” I instruct, “and tell her to take it down a size.”
“It fits you perfectly.”
“To a four, please,” I snip as I pick the dress up off the floor. “And remove this flower.” I grab the one at the center of the bodice. “Are we repurposing wedding dresses from 1982 or something?”
But she’s not paying attention. She stands back and stares at me, and when she turns and checks my reflection in the mirror, I follow her gaze.
The simple hoop skirt wraps around me, thin and absent of bows and ruffles and lace, while the strapless white bustier hugs my breasts almost too tightly and covers my stomach, leaving an inch of skin between that and my skirt.