Rise: Populations Crumble, Book 2 by Gandy, A. (read book .txt) 📕

across her chest. Quickly shucking off my childish pajamas, I slip the dress over my head. It has a plunging neckline, and a gather on one side over halfway up my thigh. I’m trying to arrange it to cover more of my cleavage when she tuts, and I look up to see her inspecting me again. “No, that’s not what we’re looking for at all. Too sexy.” She flips through the rack again, and hands me another dress, also white.

I toss the first dress on the bed and pull on the next one. Thankfully the zipper is on the side, and it zips in one fluid motion. I look down and take in the one-shoulder, fitted gown. It’s pretty, but not at all my style. There is a large fabric ruffle on the side with the shoulder, and the other side swoops daringly low.

The bathroom door opens, and Patrick re-enters looking hot as Hades in the blue suit. His white dress shirt has one button undone at the top, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the tiny snippet of skin I can see there.

“Oh dear, that’s all wrong. We don’t want you looking like some old presidential candidate. That’s so last century.” She shudders, and hands him a different suit before shooing him back to the bathroom. She turns to me, and looks exasperated. “That won’t work, either. They didn’t tell me you had so much cleavage.” The glare she gives me implies I somehow had control over this, which I would like to assure her, I did not.

She taps her chin and assesses me with a frown. “I think I have one gown which might work. To think, I almost didn’t bring it because it’s the wrong color.”

She hands me a third gown, and I wait for her to turn back around before stripping again. This one slides over me in a smooth rush of deep blue gossamer silk. It settles, right at my toes, and the split sleeves allow for plenty of freedom of movement for my arms. It almost looks Greek, like a goddess’s robes from the stories I read growing up. The neckline is high, and the gathered material hugs my collarbone. The only risqué bit is that the waist is made with see-through lace, with gold threaded details stitched throughout and my bare skin showing underneath. Of the three options, it still leaves the most to the imagination.

“Ah, yes. That’s much better. I think we have a winner.” She claps once, and gestures for me to hand it back to her. Before I do, the bathroom door opens again and Patrick steps out in a silvery pin-striped suit. It fits him like a glove, and he looks mouth-wateringly good.

His eyes, however, lock on me in the Grecian gown. “Wow, you look gorgeous.” He peruses me from the pooled hem up to my messy, bed head.

I blush. “You look quite dashing, yourself.”

“Aww, newlyweds. All blushes and romantic fluttering eyelashes. They were right to choose white, but royal blue makes a powerful statement of its own.” Brooke gestures for us to hand the clothes back, so Patrick retreats back into the bathroom. He tosses one more heated look at me before shutting the door.

“Why are all the other dresses white, now that you mention it?” The question comes out muffled, as I pull the dress over my head.

“Oh, you know, that’s the image they want to portray for the public’s first time seeing you. White is innocent, virginal, pure, all the good stuff.” She waves, as if it’s of no import.

Sacrificial lambs are white, also. I sigh and pull the infamous bow pajamas back on over my messy hair. Quite a few tendrils have escaped my nightly ponytail, and I feel like a disheveled child next to the statuesque beauty with the tailored designer clothes.

Patrick emerges, and hands the suit back to Brooke. How does he still look so good in his lounge clothes? His t-shirt and soft pajama pants cling slightly to his defined chest and trim waist, and his hair is perfectly swooped to one side. He looks like a god, even at eleven p.m.. Life isn’t fair.

Brooke, satisfied with our clothing choices, promises to have them steamed and ready to go for the interview tomorrow morning before pushing the overstuffed rack back into the hallway. One of the guards—Spivey, I think—is waiting to carry it back down the stairs for her.

Patrick shuts and locks the door, before turning and striding across the room to me. He reaches both hands around and presses them to my lower back, fingers playing with the hem of my pajama top.

“You,” he says, and kisses me on the nose—“were an absolute vision”—another kiss, this time to the cheek—“in that dress.” He kisses the other cheek. “If Brooke hadn’t been here, I’d have loved”—this time the kiss lands just below my earlobe—“to help you out of it.”

I shudder at the promise in his words, yet still can’t help but ask, “You weren’t too distracted by brunette Barbie?”

He chortles low in his throat, the vibration traveling through his lips to my jaw, where he’s kissing now. “Brunette Barbie doesn’t stand a chance against my little spitfire.” He kisses along my jawline, leaving a delicious trail of sparks in his wake, and suddenly I forget to be worried about anyone’s opinion except his.

✽✽✽

The next morning dawns, and my least favorite chimes in the world wake me when the sun is barely over the balcony railing.

I pull my pillow over my head, fully intending to ignore the cursed thing, until Patrick rubs my shoulder. “Hon, I’m sorry, but you have to get up. The beauty crew are already waiting downstairs.”

“No,” I groan, “it’s too early. We didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night.”

He chuckles. “Funny, I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

I decide my pillow makes a much better weapon than it does a barrier, and whack him with it. He laughs and steps out of swinging range. “Come on,