Faking It / Forbidden Sins. Stefanie London
special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.
But now I wonder if I’m a bit…boring. Unsophisticated.
“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.
“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”
The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.
“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly…” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.
“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”
The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—it is the perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is I am a girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.
I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’m always more invested than the other person.
When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have my She’s All That moment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.
I’m not sure I want to be, either.
“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”
I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who I really am. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us…no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
Owen
BY THE THIRD DAY of living at 21 Love Street, we’ve met a number of our neighbours in passing. Hannah ignored my suggestion to let them come to us, and I have to admit she’s playing the role of social butterfly well.
We’ve met a communications manager and her investment banker fiancé from level one. A quiet schoolteacher named Ava and her friend Emery, who live in the apartments next to Rowan and Dominic on level five. I’m thinking they could be a good source of information on the brothers’ activities. And Matt the chef lives on level three. We haven’t seen anyone on level six—I suspect the other penthouse might be owned by someone who travels a lot. There are also two young families on the first floor, and an older woman on level three who seems to keep to herself but gave a friendly wave in the mailroom as I pretended to inspect our mailbox.
Nothing suspicious yet. Based on what we have, I feel Dom, Rowan and Matt are worth looking into further. Which is why Hannah and I are waiting outside L’Arte Galleria in a line to have our tickets checked by a beefy guy in a black suit.
“This place is fancy,” Hannah whispers. She’s hanging on to my arm and has a black trench coat covering her new dress. That dress has been on my mind all day. “I bet they have Swarovski-encrusted toilets.”
I snort and make a poor attempt of covering it with a cough. We step forward in the line and she’s careful to keep her balance on a pair of pencil-thin stilettos that I bought to go with her dress. They have a mirror-like silver finish and they’re doing amazing things for her legs. Hannah had argued that they were impractical and that she wouldn’t be able to chase after anyone in them—but tonight we’re gathering information. No running required.
“Tickets?” The beefy guy has a nose that looks like it’s been on the losing side of a few fistfights and he’s built like a brick wall. Is that OTT for a gallery? I’m not sure.
Hannah hands our invite over and the beefcake scans a small barcode on the back of it. “Mr. and Mrs. Essex, welcome.”
Interesting. I don’t remember giving our surname to Dom when we spoke in front of the barbeque, but he obviously got it somehow. I press my hand to the small of Hannah’s back and we’re ushered into the cloakroom area. It’s chilly out tonight—rainy and damp in that typical Melbourne early spring way—and so we offload our outerwear. I try not to stare as Hannah shrugs out of her coat, revealing her long, lean legs and a scandalous triangle of chest. The bare skin contrasting with long sleeves looks edgy and sexy. She’s put on a little makeup and fluffed out her hair, so that it falls in shiny brown waves to her shoulders. I don’t quite understand why she made that comment about being a little girl playing dress-up yesterday, because she looks every bit the perfect Mrs. Hannah Essex to me.
“Shall we?” I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. There’s that blush again, tinting her cheeks and neck and the tips of her ears.
“Stop looking at me like that.” The words are spoken low, for my ears only.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a wolf who’s gone weeks without a fresh kill.” Her hand slips into mine. “And I’m a big, dumb deer who’s stumbled into your path.”
I pull her close to me as we weave through a large, modern archway which opens into the gallery’s main room. The exhibition is…not quite what I expected. Sculptures dot the room, abstract shapes that somehow manage to look erotic—like bodies entwined—without actually resembling anything at all.
The lighting is low, except for a few strategically placed red spotlights which give the room an almost club-like atmosphere. Electronic music plays over the speakers, but not so loud that it inhibits conversation. There are waiters circling the room, wearing blood-red tuxedo jackets and carrying trays of pink-tinted sparkling wine.
Hannah cocks her head. “This is different to what I thought it would be. Although, to be fair, my experience with galleries is limited to that one time I went to NGV on a high school excursion.”
“Same.”
Even living in New York hadn’t tempted me into the local pastime of spending hours staring at things my brain isn’t creative enough to process. I’m more of a hands-on guy. This is a bit…cerebral.
“They’re kind of sexy.” Hannah steps closer to the sculpture nearest us. She leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowed and a cute little wrinkle in her nose. “Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird at all.” A woman appears beside us, her dark hair shaved on one side and reaching down to her shoulders on the other. “This