Wendy
Finding a boring suit in my closet was surprisingly difficult.
The old Wendy apparently had a wardrobe of silk slips, designer cocktail dresses and pastel cashmere sweaters.
After twenty minutes of digging, I finally found a boxy, slate-gray blazer and matching trousers that looked like they belonged to a 1990s tax accountant.
I paired it with a sensible white button-down, buttoned all the way to my collarbone. I scraped my hair back into a bun so tight it practically gave me a facelift, slid the black glasses onto my nose and slipped my feet into flat loafers.
When I walked back into the bedroom, Reed was waiting.
He took one look at me and his lips pressed together into a tight, trembling line as he fought a losing battle against a laugh.
"Not a word." I warned, pointing a
