I took off my sunglasses and slipped them in my purse. “Same deal as before?”
“Yup. I buy you an outfit and you buy me an outfit. And we have to wear it tonight. No matter what.”
“Tonight, huh? It would help if I knew what we were doing,” I teased. Camden was doling out our day one piece at a time. For all I knew, we could be going to one of the Fabulous Follies shows in Palm Springs, or harassing the camels at The Living Desert in Palm Desert.
“I can give you a hint…it involves dinner. But I haven’t quite figured out where yet. I was thinking maybe the restaurant at the top of the gondola.”
I grimaced. “The gondola that makes me want to vomit? Good choice.”
“Or,” he said, louder now, “we can do dinner at my place.”
My ears perked up. I smiled mischievously, brushing my hair back behind my ear. Dinner at his place meant I could properly scope out the joint. It also meant sex. I hoped it would at least mean one of those things.
His face went smoothly blank for a split-second and his jaw twitched. Then he smiled and was back to his vibrant self. “Dinner at my place it is then. Now let’s make sure we’re dressed well for the occasion.” He hopped out of the jeep and made his way toward the entrance. I sat there for a few moments, feeling strangely uneasy, then brushed it away and joined him.
The door was still one of those you couldn’t tell if you had to push or pull, and after a failed attempt, Camden was holding the door open for me. The shop smelled exactly as I remembered—like mothballs, potpourri, and brass. The woman behind the counter was younger than the one back in the day, but she was still in her sixties and wore thick glasses with an ugly beaded neck strap. She snapped her head up from her paperback novel as we came in and gave us a tepid smile. I knew that smile. It was the “oh crap, these kids are going to rob me, aren’t they?” kind of smile. She’d be watching our every move.
The shop was almost empty except for an old, hunched over lady in the housewares section, peering at chipped teacups. Camden and I made a beeline for the clothes, he to the women’s section and me to the men’s, and we started noisily flipping through the racks.
I was pretty giddy as I flung the hangers down, looking for the perfect outfit for him. In the past we were all about humiliating each other, which was only fair and fun since we’d both look like idiots. Now I wasn’t sure what the plan was. But making him look like a goof during dinner seemed like a great idea to me.
I came across an extremely loud pink and purple Hawaiian shirt that wouldn’t even look hip on him. It was tacky faux silk and two sizes too large. I’d make him wear it halfway unbuttoned, then I could stare at his chest (honestly, when had I become such a horndog?). After that winning find, I went to the pants section. Something tight would do the trick, even though he hadn’t shown any aversion to tight pants, both then and now.
Then I spotted it. A kilt. Green and black tartan. Oh yes, this would look wonderful on my Scottish Hawaiian dude. I rounded out the outfit with a black fedora. Now he was also a private eye.
“Okay,” I called to him over the racks. “I have your stuff.”
“Already?” he asked, still searching through his end. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried. Unless you’ve always wanted to be a Scottish detective from Hawaii.”
“Like Magnum P.I.?”
“Not even close.”
I walked down the aisle and over to him. He was holding a glow-mesh halter top in one hand. Figures. I peered at his other hand. It was a leather miniskirt.
I breathed out sharply through my nose and shot him an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I’m not wearing the skirt so you can just put it back.”
He shook his head and kept going through some cardigans. “Rules are rules, Ellie. You have to wear whatever I choose for you.”
I crossed my arms, the pile of clothes bunching up. “I am not wearing a skirt.”
He kept on as if he didn’t hear me and the click click click of hangers being slid past were driving me insane. I bundled my clothes under one arm and put my hand on his to take the skirt away. He wouldn’t budge.
“Seriously, you know I’m not wearing that.”
He sighed and turned to face me, his dark brows coming together to create a deep groove between his eyes. “Why not?” He sounded like his patience was being tested, which in turn made my patience feel tested.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know why. I have scars, Camden. Still have them.”
“So?”
I fought the urge to raise my voice. “So? So I don’t feel like wearing something that’s going to humiliate me.”