Kate wore the bra. It felt like it was going to shove her breasts into her face, but if Darcy felt better with her in something from a strip club, she’d go with it. She was not going to show anyone, though. Marge and Susannah had both been kitted out, but in comfortable bras. Yeah, Darcy was just trying to torture her.
“We want to emphasize the legs,” Zoë muttered, camera rolling as she and Darcy yanked clothes off racks. This was where the cameras got to watch Zoë and Darcy work—terrifying, but whatever; she’d just go with it.
“Yes. Watch the shape.” Darcy tapped her finger to her lip as Zoë held up a pair of charcoal trousers. “And the size.”
“Why? She is a size twelve.” Zoë gave Darcy a duh look. “I think I can pick out a pair of cigarette pants.”
Kate frowned. Pants? “Are we back on underwear, because I am keeping my boxers.”
Zoë raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say panties.”
“Pants in normal English”—Darcy peered under her eyebrows at Zoë—“mean trousers.” She motioned to the pair Zoë was holding. “And they are nowhere near a size ten, let alone twelve.”
Zoë held them up. “Then who labelled them?”
“A machine, probably.” Darcy rolled her eyes and headed over. Zoë glared at the trousers with suspicion. “High-street shops make their own rules. You can be a size ten in one and a fourteen in another.” Darcy looked to the camera and thwacked Zoë across the head with the trousers. “Designers let loose right there.”
Zoë scowled and threw the pile of clothes on the floor. “How am I supposed to work with this?”
“The way all other women do: ignore the size and learn how to measure it against yourself.” Darcy handed them to Kate. “And keep the receipt.” She smiled a gentle smile. “By that size, we will need a sixteen.”
At least. “Medium men’s always fits, if that helps?”
Darcy scowled at her.
Right. Well, there went being helpful. She looked to the camera. “Style Surgeons let loose right there.”
Zoë howled with laughter.
Darcy narrowed her eyes, intensity rippling through them. “Would you like me to force you to wear floral embroidered jeggings?”
Mean.
Zoë winced. “I may need therapy just for that image.” She shuddered and turned to the camera. “FYI, fashion crime. Big, big crime.” She flicked her hands out like flashlights.
Darcy handed her another size in the same cigarette…whatever they were. “Try them on, and this shirt.”
Zoë nodded. “Worst tailoring ever on those sleeves, but you have me to rescue you.” She winked at Kate.
Marge cleared her throat. “Made by our sponsors,” she mouthed.
Zoë looked at her in disgust. “How low you stoop.”
Darcy shoved Kate into the changing room, muttered something under her breath, and closed the door behind them.
Kate stared at the tiny space. Wasn’t much space to fit her in, let alone change. She turned enough to be smack up against Darcy’s back. “Are they funny sizes with the changing rooms too? Because I think I need a large.”
“No.” Darcy turned and narrowed her eyes. Then passion, sheer intense passion, sparked from them.
Kate brushed her lips over Darcy’s, alarm bells dinging in her head, her brain saying, “Not a good idea.” She pulled back. Oh shit. Had she just kissed Darcy McGregor? Oh shit. Something rattled. She looked at her shaking hand still holding a load of hangers.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not meant to pick up tips from her,” she whispered and tapped her on the nose with a long fingernail. Her glossy lips slid into a smile, and she wiped over Kate’s tingling lips with the pad of her thumb. “Change.”
No assault charge? No “get out of the shop?” Nope, Darcy looked amused. She’d take it. She yanked down her jeans, trying not to headbutt Darcy’s chest, and tried to ignore Darcy’s gaze on her boxers. Fruity perfume tickled her nostrils. The heat from Darcy’s breath tickled her neck as she exhaled.
“You’re not making this easy,” she managed, her voice hoarse. She stooped to pull off her shoes—that’d help—then glanced back up. “It’s like a cupboard in here.”
Darcy raised her eyebrow, peering down at her with the kind of look that just made Kate want to rip at Darcy’s very plush jacket and shirt.
“You need a referee in there?” Zoë yelled and hammered on the door. “Or do you want me to continue to go through the serious design flaws in these clothes?”
Darcy scowled over her shoulder at the door. “If the sponsors pull out, you can sponsor the show.”
“Fine. At least we’d have sense.” Zoë sounded like she was grinning.
“Sense?” Darcy glared harder at the door. Kate wrestled on her trousers—weird shape, weird fit. “Sense? You dress skeletons for a living.”
Kate sniggered. “Or very short people.” She motioned to her trousers. Her ankles were on show. Looked crazy with stripy socks.
Surprisingly, she got a smile from Darcy. “Wonderful. Try the top.”
Wonderful? Darcy liked stripy socks? She rolled her finger around in a circular motion. “Only if you look the other way.”
Darcy put her hands on her hips. How could she pull off a catwalk pose in a cupboard? “I’ve seen you in a bra already, what is the issue?”
Kate leaned in and planted her lips to Darcy’s, again. Lingered. Kissed each lip in turn. Fruity. Okay, kissing her once had been cheeky, but twice and lingering was… It had to be assault. Could she still be on the show with a restraining order?
Darcy eased back. “Is this another defensive tactic?” Her tone was husky, eyes twinkling as she wiped her lipstick from Kate’s lips again.
“I think it might be.” It had to be. Who went and kissed someone they didn’t know, twice, in a changing room? “Turn.”
Darcy sighed and turned around.
“Are you beating her in there?” Zoë’s tone was full of a laugh.
“No, Kate is shy about her underwear suddenly,” Darcy muttered and turned, just as Kate slid off her shirt. Great. Darcy’s gaze dropped to the bra, and her neck flexed several times.
“Defensive thing is going to trip again,” she whispered. The intense gaze wasn’t helping either.
Darcy snapped her eyes up. “Definitely a masterpiece.”
Kate smirked. “The bra or the breasts?”
“Both.” Darcy helped her wrestle on her shirt and buttoned it up, wheezing out a breath. “You look good in purple.”
“The shirt is blue, though.” She cocked her head. Was Darcy blushing? Nah, must be warm.
“The bra isn’t.” Darcy ripped open the door. Cameras fixed on them, and she dragged Kate out. “Now this is how to define shape.”
“If I want cold ankles,” Kate mumbled, then grinned as Mikey and Mum wandered over to Susannah in the background. “Mikey will think I look crazy.”
Darcy wagged her finger. “My dear Sproutman.” She strode over to Mikey. He gazed up at her. “Can you help us?”
He puffed out his chest. “Kay.”
Darcy took him by the hand and led him over. Zoë high-fived him as Darcy placed him in front of Kate. “What do you think? Kate feels she looks silly.”
Mikey beamed up at her. “You look like a lady.” He burst into laughter. “Kate-oh!”
Was that a “yes, she looked crazy?” She hugged him. Stupid how much she missed him. “I lost half my trouser leg.”
Mikey pursed his lips. “They’re ciggie pant.” He nodded to Zoë. “Kate likes pockets.”
Zoë nodded. “So I’ve heard. These have them.”
Mikey turned back to her. “You don’t wear socks with them, Darcy says.” He blushed and wandered off back to Susannah and the drink she had for him.
“Darcy does, does she?” Kate put her hands on her hips. A flash went off, and she blinked away the blue blocks in her vision. “Ow?”
Marge smiled. “Sorry, kid. Light in here is tough on the camera.” She hit the shutter again. Just a blink of a red light flashed. “Better.”
“Is that to bribe me?” She could only imagine what Bennie would think. She would laugh at her and say she looked like a bloke.
“You haven’t seen yourself.” Darcy nodded to Zoë. “Workable?”
Zoë grinned and gave Kate a wink. “Workable.”