Page 74 of On Edge

I gnaw my lower lip, and nod.

“So you’ll need more than a pair of pants?”

“This will do. Honestly.”

He shakes his head, his mouth a grim line to match the annoyance flashing in his eyes. “You’re a nightmare. You’re not even wearing a coat.”

I don’t bother to reply to that.

He frowns and then sighs, removing his jacket and handing it to me, taking my lone shopping bag in one smooth motion.

Reluctantly, I let him.

Troy walks toward the parking lot, and I follow behind, shrouded in his jacket. It’s warm and smells of his cologne. I try not to breathe too deeply. When we get to his car—a matte-black sports car with only two seats—he puts my bag under the hood (which is actually where I thought the engine was), and then opens the door for me. Soft lighting and ink-black leather that smells amazing entice me in.

“What about Mundel?” I ask when Troy slips behind the wheel,

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he coming with us?”

“No. He’s got things here to be getting on with. Unless you’d rather go shopping with him.”

I shake my head, feeling like I’m cocooned in a spaceship as we glide out of the mall parking lot and head towards London.

I’m staringout the window, wondering why we are driving all this way, when Troy pulls into a deserted street and parks outside an elegant-looking building with glass doors. A doorman approaches the car and goes to open my door, but Troy is already out and beats him to it, holding it for me.

I stare at him, but don’t move. We’re in Knightsbridge.

“Come on, I don’t have all day.”

“Why are we here?”

“We’re going into Harrods.”

I almost choke. I could never afford to buy my clothes here. “I was fine at the mall,” I hiss.

Troy rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I shop at the mall?”

I dare to look at his clothes again, particularly how his suit fits his body as if it were tattooed on. No, he doesn’t.

He raises a brow. “Shall I turn so you can get a good look behind, too?”

Cheeks burning red, I get out quickly and duck under his arm, scurrying into the store.

I falter inside, unsure where to go. But then Troy comes up next to me, his arm wrapping around my waist as he sweeps me forward. My face is hot, and my legs are stiff as he guides me to the elevator and we go all the way up to the penthouse on the sixth floor.

Two personal stylists are waiting to greet Troy as we step out. One is a brunette with brown skin with a name tag, Lauren, and the other is blonde with a pixie cut, pale skin, and a tag that says Carlotta.

She steps forward. “Hi, I’m Carly. Welcome to Harrods. “You must be Sage. Can we get you some refreshments? A cup of tea or a glass of Cristal?”

The other stylist, Lauren, introduces herself with a warm smile. She picks up a tablet and swipes it a few times. “Now, Sage, your fiancé called ahead, so we already have your skin tone and basic body measurements. Looking at you, I’d say you’re a soft Autumn, but I’ll need more information if we’re going to build you a dream wardrobe. Since you’re getting married, you’ll need clothes for all the events surrounding your big day, too. Come, sit, and tell me what colors and cuts you prefer to wear while our tailor measures you properly.”

Soft Autumn?

And how did Troy get my measurements?

I shoot a look at Troy, who suddenly looks like he’d rather be elsewhere. In fact, mid style-questionaire, he makes his excuse to step out to make a few phone calls.