Twist My Heart Brooke Taylor (classic books to read .TXT) 📖

Chapter Twenty-One

Thea’s shopping spree ended over a thousand dollars later exactly where it began—the barricade of blues. She’d stretched every dollar if the sheer multitude of bags Nik guarded from his seat in women’s shoes was any indication. This after one trip out to the car to drop off bags and check on Titan already. Nik had naïvely expected the shopping trip to only take a few minutes when he’d agreed to bring the dog along, but luckily the overcast day and cool spring temperature kept Titan very comfortable.

At every department Thea hit, Nik offered to help fund her, but she insisted on using the money from the purse. With each purchase she slipped an IOU scrap into her wad of cash. Still, Nik planned to help her if it turned out the money wasn’t hers. While his E-8 payrate as a SEAL had been rather pathetic considering his skill level and the fact his life was constantly on the line, years of simple living, along with insurance money from his family’s crash and a few smart investments, had left him wealthy. He understood, admired even, Thea’s desire to take care of herself. Still, he longed to buy her something more than sexy lingerie.

He wanted her to have something when she left. Something she could remember him by. A way to stay connected after her memories came back and she went running home. The inevitability of that was something he needed to keep reminding himself of, even though the thought of her leaving made him want to ram his fist into a wall.

So far there’d been no sign of anyone suspicious following her, only average idiots checking her ass out before realizing they were in the crosshairs of Nik’s death glare. That’s right, gentleman, throat punches are free all day, every day.

He kicked his booted feet up on the shoe salesman’s stool, folded his arms across his chest, and watched with tired eyes as Thea worked up the courage to approach her mark—an attractive, red-haired woman she’d determined had a similar body shape and the perfect pair of jeans. If there was ever a time he could get eight hours of good solid sleep, this would’ve been it.

* * * *

After the beautiful chaos my body had been treated to in the dressing room, I could barely make out people’s faces for at least an hour. The woman very well could’ve been right beside me and I would’ve only seen slender shapes of red and black and blue with peeks of peachy skin. I’d also stopped checking price tags. Apparently I was the kind of girl who took a bury-my-head-in-the-shoe-department stance on my post-orgasmic fiscal irresponsibility. But this wasn’t about me.

This was about her. My muse.

She stole my breath away. Seriously. I gasped. She didn’t seem real. Her hair in varying shades of red—ombré popped into my mind—was perfect. Her face was flawless. Her clothes immaculate and stylish. And yet, everything was simple—a loose ponytail of her flame-like hair pulled over to one side, dark mascara, a hint of blush, and a swipe of cranberry gloss.

I’d sought out and purchased a similarly loose-fitting, wide-necked black top like the one carelessly dripping off her shoulder. Then quickly returned to the lingerie department to grab up a cranberry-colored camisole with thin silky straps. And I’d just finished handing over a fistful of cash for a pair of suede booties in nude even though my bruised ankle protested against the torture.

The only thing missing was the damn pants, and wouldn’t you know it, my muse was headed right where I needed her most. My stomach fluttered and flipped at the prospect of following this woman into the tenth circle of hell—women’s jeans.

I’d already figured out my size for most clothes—with only three or four options and a little trial and error I had a fair idea of what would fit. But the jeans were sized with different numbers and not just one number, but sometimes even two.

And what was up with the ones sized with words—skinny, loose, reverse…boyfriend? Fierce? Calm? Total Control? Ridiculous.

Nik’s only encouragement was a shooing motion with his fingers to hurry me along. I scowled at him. “Please talk to her for me.”

“She’ll assume I’m hitting on her and we’ll end up in the dressing room having a threesome. Is that really what you want?”

His bored smirk told me he was kidding, but I still huffed, “If it will get me those jeans, maybe.”

“I’m down for whatever you are, Tiggs. But, odds of having a threesome go up substantially when one of the women initiates it.” His eyes dared me to ask him how he knew.

“Ugh! We’re not proposing a ménage à trois, we’re asking for help buying jeans.”

“We aren’t. You are.” He’d lost patience with this whole shopping mission about thirty seconds after we’d left women’s lingerie over two hours ago. To be honest, it hadn’t taken me much longer. But buying clothes made it feel a little less like my future would be spent in an orange jumpsuit and besides, I had an outfit to complete.

“What am I supposed to say to her? ‘Hi, I’m a fugitive amnesiac. All I have to my name is a gun and a stolen purse, but would you mind helping me find the perfect pair of jeans?’ Yeah…no.”

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “How about, ‘Your ass is smokin’ hot in those, what kind are they’?”

My hands went to my hips. “And you wonder why she might assume you’re hitting on her?”

He hitched a shoulder. “Tell her you’re ex-Amish. It would explain why you’ve never bought jeans.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Go. Make friends.” He leaned back, knees spread, arms crossed over his chest. His eyelids dropped as if he were taking a nap. As I headed off, he added, “Let me know which dressing room for the ménage and when to be à trois.”

I grabbed a sparkly red pump from the rounder of samples and flung