Iris

My first novel to make it big had been a Pretty Woman-esque novel. Down on her luck girl meets billionaire boy and is swept up by his charm and lavish gifts. As a barely making it writer, it had been fun to live in that fantasy. When you weren't sure if your light bill was going to get paid, the idea of anyone taking care of you seemed appealing; however, that was years ago, and I had grown to love the freedom that came with financial security. That included buying my own damn dresses.

Five stores.

I'd been to five stores and had not a single thing to show for it. Polite sales people offered to help me find the perfect gown, and in the first three shops, I'd agreed, trying on at least two dozen dresses. Some were stunning and fit my curves like a glove. Others had clearly been chosen because of the price tag, which would yield the highest commission.

By store four, I refused to make eye contact with anyone, and after ten minutes rifling through hangers, I bolted. It took thirty minutes and a pretzel from a street vendor to recover enough to enter another dress shop, and I refused to leave until I had made a purchase.

This entire thing would have been easier with Ivy here. She wouldn't have any qualms about spending her boss's money, and she would have picked out the dress best suited to our body type within the first five minutes in the first store. There were a lot of things that drove me nuts about my sister, but her confidence wasn't one of them. Sometimes I wondered if she'd taken it all for herself in the womb and left me with none.

Standing in the fitting room, I gazed at my nearly naked form in the mirror and tried not to pick out every flaw. Like the stretch marks above my panty line—the ones puberty and the freshman fifteen had bestowed. Or the pale, pink appendectomy scar on the lower right portion of my abdomen.

Then there were my hips. I frowned and ran my hands over the dips. Hip dips. Violin hips. God, the hours I'd spent in the gym trying to smooth those out, only to discover they were a genetic gift that would never disappear. I'd purposely picked out dresses that would hide them.

"Let's get this over with," I grumbled, picking up a garment and slipping it over my head. The beige color wrecked my complexion. "Immediate no."

Dresses two, three, and four went on to the absolutely not heap. Number five made me hesitate enough to label it as a contender, but dress six stopped me in my tracks. Gaping at my reflection, I touched the coral silk in awe.

The top portion of the gown was off the shoulder and rigidly constructed, almost like a corset. The neckline was dangerously low, or maybe it simply appeared that way because of how much the fitted top pushed my breasts up. They felt as if they might spill out if I breathed too deeply, and yet... somehow I didn't feel too exposed or tacky.

The skirt began at the smallest point of my waist, tapering in to give the illusion of an even smaller waist. The weight of the fabric flowed down the left side of my body, and a scandalously high slit revealed all of my right leg to the world.

That was it. No buttons. No gems or glitter. No ornate stitching. Just gorgeous color and smooth satin fabric that looked as if it had been tailor made for me. I'd never wanted a dress so bad in my life or—I swallowed and held my gaze, cheeks flushing—to be taken out of one. By a very specific man.

Was that why this was so hard? Because I so desperately wanted to find something that would not only make Garrett look at me like he did this morning, but would tempt him beyond common sense? And I wanted to pay for it with my own money, so whatever transpired between us didn't feel so cheap.

"This is a terrible idea."

I nodded and slipped out of the dress. I would buy dress number five. It was a little black dress. Classic. Every girl needed a solid LBD in her closet.

My phone rang. Shannon's name blazed across the screen, the little devil emojis I'd put next to her name mocking me as I debated answering, but this was the third time she called.

"Hey, Shannon," I said, slightly out of breath as I wrestled the gown back onto its hanger.

"Dare I hope you're breathing hard because of the filthy things you're typing out?" My editor aimed for teasing, but I didn't miss the stern edge in her voice.

"Something like that." I swapped the phone to my other ear. "Didn't you get the new edits I sent you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"And... Iris, they're better, but they're not great. It still reads as a little mechanical. Like you googled sex and wrote it based on that."

A forced giggle slipped through my lips. "Of course not!"

Shannon laughed. "I mean, I know you didn't, but girl, I do have to say that I'm seriously concerned about your sex life."

My feet tangled in one of the dresses, and I nearly nose dived into the plush, white dressing room carpet. "Why would you be worried about my sex life?"

"You are one of the most talented writers I have ever worked with. You make people cry and laugh and fall in love. So for you to be struggling with this, I feel like you've never really had the best experience."

"Shannon—"

"Look, I know this kind of crosses some professional boundaries, but you and I have been working on books together for a long time, right?" I begrudgingly agreed. "The thing is... you can't fake good sex, no matter how well you write."

"Umm, I beg to differ. Fantasy authors have never ridden dragons, but they can make a reader believe they have. Make a reader believe they're the ones riding the dragon. Maybe my partners have been lackluster—" Nonexistent was more accurate. "But I should be able to write it. I just need a little more time."

I stood outside the dressing room, the black dress draped over my arm. A knot tightened in my gut as I thought about the other dress, but I dismissed it and headed toward the checkout.

"Honey, people believe fantasy authors because no one has ever ridden a dragon. There is nothing to compare it to so there are no rules... But there's no way you can convince a woman who knows what it's like to come so hard her toes curls and her vision goes blurry if you've never experienced it."

"Oh, my gosh. You and Minh. What do you want me to do? Go out and get laid?" The sales clerk paused, his eyes going wide. He shuffled a little closer as I lowered my voice. "I'm not sure that's responsible research."

Shannon choked back another laugh. "Oh, Iris. Don't give me that. I've seen what you authors look up in the name of 'research.' Just think about it because you really don't have a lot of time. Two more weeks."

"That'll be six hundred and twenty-two dollars." The sales clerk held out his hand.

I handed over Garrett's card, not batting an eyelash at the amount as I ended the call. My mind was a million miles away. Could I seriously be considering taking Shannon's advice? Of course, there was also Minh's advice—the less extreme, but somehow more distasteful. Maybe I could do a little of both. Figure out what I liked and get comfortable with the idea before finally doing the horizontal with a man.

And... it didn't have to be Garrett. Whatever chance he and I might have had if I'd been brave enough to talk to him as Iris was gone now that I'd spent time with him pretending to be Ivy. We could never... not now, as much as it pained me to admit. But there were going to be a lot of eligible, successful men at this conference this weekend, and Garrett did tell me I would have some free time.

"One second," I said, holding up my hand and rushing to the fitting rooms. I returned with the coral dress. If I was even considering this, I had to have this dress. "I'll take this, too."

"Same card?"

"No," I dug out my own card. "Put it on this one."