Teach Me, Jake

Chapter Two

Alice had expected a few awkward lines about eye contact or smiling more. Maybe some overconfident remarks and a Pinterest-level list of "flirting tips."

She did not expect to be dragged into a mall, handed a champagne, and promptly marched toward a boutique that looked like only royalty—or Jake Kingsley—could afford it.

"This isn't a lesson," she muttered, following him into a room that smelled like cashmere and ambition. "It's a makeover."

Jake smirked, already making himself comfortable in a velvet armchair. "Lesson one: packaging matters."

She rolled her eyes. "You sound like a tech bro selling an app."

He gestured to the associate with the confidence of someone who'd done this too many times. "Bring out pieces in dark tones. Silk, structured, high necklines. Nothing too—" his eyes flicked to Alice, "—desperate."

Alice blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jake didn't even look at her. "You don't want to attract the kind of attention that comes from glitter and cutouts."

"I thought that was the whole point," she snapped. "I'm trying to stop fading into the wallpaper, remember?"

Emma, tagging along with a grin and an iced coffee, stood back and watched the verbal tennis match with quiet amusement.

Jake gave a calm shrug. "You want to stand out, not sell out."

"And you want me to dress like a senator's wife at a brunch."

He took a slow sip of champagne. "I want you to dress like someone who doesn't have to scream to be heard."

The boutique employee returned with an armful of understated, elegant pieces. Long sleeves. High collars. Neutral tones. They looked expensive and timeless and nothing like her.

Alice gave Jake a look. "Seriously?"

He crossed one ankle over his knee. "Trust the process."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "This process looks a lot like you policing her cleavage."

Jake ignored that.

Alice takes the clothes from the associate's arm and stomped into the dressing room.

Each dress fit perfectly, of course. Clean lines. Hidden power. The kind of clothing that said I own the room, not I dare you to notice me.

She hated how much she liked the way they made her feel—stronger, taller—but she hated more that Jake was the one pulling the strings.

She stepped out in the third outfit, a navy dress that hugged her ribs but flared modestly at the bottom. "Happy now?"

Jake looked at her and smiled, satisfied. "There she is."

Alice narrowed her eyes. "You haven't let me try on a single dress I picked."

"You picked a sequined red mini dress with a neckline that would give someone a nosebleed."

She lifted her chin. "Yeah, because that's what women wear when they're confident."

He stood, slow and deliberate, setting his champagne down on the glass table.

"No," he said. "That's what women wear when they think confidence means approval."

That shut her up for a second.

Emma whistled. "Whew. Okay, therapist Jake's in the building."

But Alice just stared at him, jaw clenched. "Maybe I want approval."

Jake's expression shifted—softer, but not gentler. "Not from the wrong people."

And suddenly, she realized: this wasn't about fashion. It wasn't about cleavage or control.

It was about the idea of her becoming someone new. Someone who wasn't "just Alice."

Jake didn't want that.

She crossed her arms. "Why does it matter what I wear?"

He was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, with a shrug: "Because you're not like that. And I'm not going to help you pretend to be."

Alice's throat went dry. "Wow. So I'm not allowed to change?"

Jake stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Not like that. Not for the wrong reasons. Not because some guy didn't kiss you back, or because the world made you feel invisible."

Silence fell between them.

And then, softer—Emma, from the corner: "He just wants you to look like you. Not someone trying to be enough."

Alice blinked fast. Her chest felt too full, her hands too empty.

Emma watched them with quiet interest as the silence between Jake and Alice stretched—thick, weighted, unfinished.

Alice didn't break eye contact as she reached for the red sequined dress still hanging behind the associate's station. She held it up, bold and unapologetic.

Jake exhaled, slow and measured. "Ali..."

"I'm wearing it and lesson two: don't tell me who I am." she said simply.

He didn't argue. Not really. His jaw flexed. His hands were in his pockets now, and he looked away, out the boutique window like the glass might offer a way out.

But when he spoke, his voice was lower. Guarded.

"You do whatever you want."

Emma turned her head, narrowing her eyes. She knew that tone. That was Jake letting go of control before it slipped anyway.

Alice nodded once, taking the dress and disappearing into the dressing room.

A few minutes later, she emerged. The room paused.

The red shimmered against her skin like fire and defiance wrapped in fabric. The neckline dipped tastefully low, the back draped open. Confidence. Energy. She felt like heat in human form.

She looked right at Jake as she walked to the counter and handed over her card. "I'll take it."

Jake didn't say a word.

But something flickered in his eyes—quick, haunted, and gone just as fast.

Emma clocked it.

Jake dated women who wore dresses like that. He slept next to them, whispered to them, took pictures with them. But he didn't protect them.

And he didn't want Alice to become one of them.

He didn't want her to be a girl he could touch and forget.

And maybe, just maybe, he knew deep down: if Alice wore that dress, and became that version of herself, he wouldn't be able to keep pretending he didn't feel something more.

As Alice walked out of the boutique ahead of him, head held high, Jake lingered for a moment, then followed—silent, tense, fighting something even he didn't have a name for.

Emma sipped the last of her coffee and muttered, half to herself:

"Well. That's gonna explode eventually."