It seemed natural for him.
It wasn’t for me.
I’d never had an actual boyfriend or someone steady in my life — so having someone hold me in public, felt… foreign, but extremely nice.
A group of teenage girls were riding down; as we passed, I could have sworn I heard each of their hearts stop. As it was, all talking ceased, mouths dropped open, one girl let out a little whimper, and — yup — a camera phone quickly snapped a profile shot of Sergio.
“Happen often?” I joked.
Sergio narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Teen girls.” I jerked my head in their direction; most of them were still staring, so when Sergio turned around, they all froze in place and nearly fell off the bottom of the escalator.
He shook his head in disbelief then flashed me an amused smile. “They’re probably just confused as to why a giant would be with such a small little pixie.”
I growled. “I’m short, but I can still dropkick your ass.”
“Oh, I know.” He nodded escorting me off. “I still have a bruise on my ass to prove it.”
“Aw, it’s like a love mark.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think every time it hurts to sit. A love mark.”
I smacked his ass hard.
He let out a little groan.
A saleslady stopped walking and eyed us suspiciously.
“Sorry.” I licked my lips and elbowed Sergio. “He’s just really sexually frustrated.”
Her eyes bugged out of her head as she scurried past us and nearly collided with a mannequin.
“That went well.” I nodded and turned to Sergio. His eyes were dark and hungry as he gazed down at me.
I gulped.
“If you wouldn’t have chosen my car over me, I wouldn’t be so…” He leaned forward and tilted my chin up. “…frustrated.”
“They have changing rooms for a reason.”
“With cameras.”
“So put on a good show.”
He sighed and released my chin. “Let’s shop first…” He quickly looked around then grabbed my arm and basically pulled me toward designers I’d never worn before. In fact, I was pretty sure they didn’t let just anyone walk up to those little sections of the store that have glass surrounding them.
Dolce & Gabbana was first.
Followed by Versace.
We ended up in Prada, and then when Sergio still wasn’t happy, we moved into another section that I couldn’t really pronounce.
A tank top was six-hundred-and-ninety dollars.
Sergio was like a man possessed. I imagined seeing him shop was like watching an animal finally return to its natural habitat. Yes, Sergio was the great white shark finally getting released back into the ocean.
You know, if people saved sharks.
Then healed them.
Then returned them to their natural habitat where they’d most likely kill all the other endangered animals.
Bad example, but I couldn’t exactly say he was like a turtle finally finding its way into the ocean.
He was all aggression.
His eyes took in each thread count; he was the Clark Kent of shopping, using super-human eyesight to read through any sort of cheaply made fabric.
“This.” He tossed me a dress. Didn’t ask if I liked it, simply ordered me to hold it. And so it went. He said “this” and tossed; I caught and tried not to trip.
In three hours, he’d picked out complete outfits.
Not just shirts that I could wear around the house…
But silky things that hung on my body like I wasn’t sick. Pants that hugged my legs like they weren’t losing muscle.
Every outfit fit.
Sergio was officially magic.
He didn’t complain when I took a long time getting in and out of the clothes; then again, he was actually in the changing room with me, considering a few of the outfits made no sense whatsoever.
You know you officially have no style when a guy has to tell you which way the front is on the shirt.
Sergio got that irritated look on his face then told me to open up the door or “so help me, I’m going to break it down.”
Another saleslady scurried by after that…
Leaving us all alone in our own dressing area.
“So what do you think?” I’d just tried on a beautiful, short, black lace dress with three-quarter sleeves. It hugged every curve. I already imagined wearing bright blue shoes with it or something equally loud. Maybe I’d go red and match his car.
“Hmm.” Sergio leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. “Twirl for me?”
I twirled once.
He frowned harder.
My face fell. “It’s ugly?”
“Twirl again,” he instructed. “Stop if you get dizzy.”
I twirled again, slower this time, so I didn’t fall over.
Still no emotion. The guy said he was Italian, but in moments like these I wondered if he didn’t have some Russian blood running through those ice veins of his.
“One more time.”
Rolling my eyes, I twirled one more time; halfway around, I felt his hands on my hips, helping me finish the twirl. When I faced him again, his eyes were hooded. “It was a three-twirl dress.”
“Aw, that good?” I wrapped my arms around his neck.
“Not just good…” His knuckles grazed my ribs, his fingertips spread across my hips and landed on my ass. “Gorgeous.”
“It’s over twenty-seven-hundred dollars.”