My hands go straight to the tag on the black dress. I flip it over and…
It’s a size six.
The next one is a six, too. The next two are eights and cut like potato sacks.
If this woman thinks I can fit into a size six, she either has glaucoma or a time machine.
But that doesn’t seem to be the biggest issue. I look up and realize there’s a sharp animosity in the air—and it’s coming from Kane.
“Delilah’s what?” he says. His voice is stripped of all emotion, almost to a scary extent.
The saleswoman hesitates. “I’m sorry?”
“You said her proportions were ‘unique.’ I want to know what you meant by that.”
“Oh—I just meant that she’s got a really lovely shape, and there are certain silhouettes that—”
“Because it sounded like an insult,” Kane says, straight over the top of her. “But not even
