‘I—um—it didn’t come up,’ I stammer.

‘No harm done. So, how are you getting on?’

‘This is the first dress, Mr Sullivan,’ Terri pipes up. ‘And we think she—ahh—Ms Winters looks fantastic in it.’

Fantastic. Not an opinion either of them have volunteered before now.

‘Great.’ Brendan nods brusquely. ‘We’ll take it.’ He may want to dress his little fuck-doll up, but I can’t imagine the actual process of shopping is any fun for him at all. Nor is it a good use of his time, I imagine.

He holds me by the forearms and pushes me towards the changing area before pulling the curtain shut around us. ‘I’ll help her get changed. Give us the next one, please.’

‘It’s three grand,’ I hiss as he turns me around so he can unzip the dress.

‘Don’t care. Worth every penny. Just don’t come near me when I’m drinking coffee or eating chocolate. I’m a clumsy bastard, and you’—he pulls the zip open with great relish and far too little concern for the dress itself—‘are ravishing.’

He pushes the dress off my shoulders, exposing me down to my waist, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He licks his lips. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he whispers. He brushes his fingertips lightly down my upper arms, and I shiver. ‘Welcome to Sullivan Construction, Ms Winters.’

Brendan threads his hands between my body and my arms, those same fingertips gliding over my ribs, his blue eyes holding my gaze in the mirror. Fiona and Terri are right on the other side of the curtain, and this is really inappropriate, and I can’t look away from him. Can’t look away from the sheer size of him behind me, from the way he’s checking me out so proprietarily. He brings his hands up to cup my bra and stops.

‘What the fuck are these?’

Oh shit. The fillets. ‘I, um—they said I needed them to fill out the dress. Something about the line?’ I whisper, my eyes darting nervously between the reflection of my boobs and that of the outrage on his face.

‘Like fuck you do.’ He sticks a hand down the front of my bra, his warm skin grazing my nipple, and yanks the silicone thingy out. He does the same with the other, then rips the curtain aside enough to step out.

‘Don’t you fucking tell her she needs these to look good in a dress,’ he shouts at the sales assistants. I hear one wet slap as a fillet presumably lands on the glass coffee table, then another. ‘Her figure is fucking perfect, and you know it. If you can’t stick to your job, which is picking out clothes and handing them to us, then you can get out and leave us to it. Do I make myself clear?’