"A damaged dress?" Melody glances at me. "You mean my sweater dress? The black one?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah, we kind of… I mean, he kind of…"

She holds her hands up to stop me. "Enough said."

I laugh nervously, glancing back at the saleswoman as she eyes us, her gaze even icier than just a moment ago. She clears her throat dramatically, waving around the store. "Well, help yourselves to anything in the store. The dressing rooms are through there." She points toward the back. "I'm here to help if you need it."

"Thanks," I mumble as she walks away. I turn to Melody, about to say something—anything—when she lets out a squeal and drops her school bag in the middle of the store, grabbing my hand and yanking me over to a rack of clothes.

She's thrown into fast-forward as she descends upon the store, picking up dresses and holding them up to herself, running to the closest mirror and twirling around. The girl is a shopping machine. I scan some racks, noticing not a single piece has a price tag. "How am I supposed to know how much they cost?"

That icy voice clears nearby. "Mr. Vitale said you're to pick out what you like, not what you think you can have."

"That sounds like him," I mutter, picking up a sleek black dress and surveying it before sticking it back on the rack. I doubt I could squeeze a thigh into the thing.

Melody accumulates a dozen dresses she wants to try on, forcing a few on me along the way. I humor her, trying them on before pushing them aside. They're flashy and revealing, nothing I would be caught dead in. I find a simple black dress in my size and pick it up, heading toward the dressing rooms with it when another catches my eye. It's on a rack of pink and purple dresses, but the color falls somewhere in between, like raspberry.

I walk over to it, running my hand along the material. The gown is soft with an embroidered see-through overlay, giving the illusion of it being strapless but with three-quarter length sleeves. I don't know much about fashion besides that—don't recognize the designer's name or know what it's made of—but it's utterly beautiful.

And it's my size.

I take it into the dressing room, forgetting all about the black dress, and set to work putting on the gown. I struggle zipping it the whole way up in the back and step out of the dressing room wearing it, finding Melody admiring herself in a full-length mirror. She's wearing a black dress that seems to be made of leather and lace, low cut and skin tight. Her gaze catches mine in the mirror and she freezes.

"Can you zip this?" I ask, turning around so my back is to her. As soon as I do, I catch sight of a familiar set of eyes along the street. Naz.

He steps into the boutique. The saleswoman greets him warmly—a hell of a lot warmer than she greeted us—but his eyes are fixed solely on me as Melody zips me up. The dress is snug, tight around my chest, but it's bearable.

And damn, it's beautiful.

Naz walks toward us, ignoring the saleswoman as she attempts to strike up conversation. His eyes scan me as he approaches, but as soon as he's right up on us he focuses on Melody instead. He holds his hand out. "I haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting you yet. Melody Carmichael, I presume?"

My brow furrows. I most definitely didn't tell him her full name, but for some reason I'm not surprised he knows it.

Melody's flustered, blinking a few times as she takes his hand.

"Ignazio Vitale," he says, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Miss Carmichael."

"I, uh… you, too."

He laughs, letting go as he turns to me. "I doubt that."

His eyes scan me, lingering on my breasts before trailing down my stomach, following the curve of my hips and the whole way down to my feet. A slight smirk touches his lips, just enough to flash a dimple. "Nice dress."

"You think so?" I ask, glancing down.

"Yes," he says. "It looks great on you."

Melody's gaze shifts between the two of us as she waves our way. "Isn't this like, against the rules? You're not supposed to see the dress beforehand."

"That's only when you get married," I mutter, grasping the dress where it starts to flare beneath my hips and twirl it a bit.

"We're not quite at that point," Naz says, pausing before offering a quiet "yet" that hits me so hard I blanch. He's not looking at me, though, as he seeks out the saleswoman. He waves her over, and she plasters a smile to her face as she approaches. Naz motions toward the dress I'm wearing. "How much is this one going to run me?"

The woman looks it over. "The Monique Lhuillier is eleven."

I gasp. "Eleven hundred bucks?"

The woman's eyes burn through me. "Eleven thousand."

The moment she says it, I feel like I can't breath, the dress suddenly too tight, constricting my airflow. I'm on the verge of panicking as Naz motions towards Melody's. "And for Miss Carmichael's?"

"The Stella McCartney is on sale for eight-fifty."

"Eight-fifty what?" I demand.

"Dollars," the woman says.

"Oh." I glance at Melody's dress. Still expensive, but that's a hell of a lot better. "Can I have one of those instead?"

Before the woman can speak, Naz interjects, telling her he'll take both dresses. He turns to me, a hint of amusement in his expression. "Pick out some shoes to go with it."