Oates does not take her to a 'pretentious boutique where he normally shops' – just as she had dreaded. Nor does he take the path that most people these days, Emilia included, would choose to solve a first-of-its-kind wardrobe – or any other kind – emergency. He doesn't pick up his stylish phone the size of a proper pub sandwich, which, conversely, could only look that proportionate in a hand as massive as his, and he doesn't ask a digital butler for guidance.

He excuses himself, gently places Emilia on the bed, and calls someone named Marigold. Emilia can hear richly intoned responses on the other end of the line – and that makes her worry.

He hangs up and turns to Emilia.

"I want to introduce you to a friend," he starts carefully. "She will meet us at Hawthorne & Smith-Vasey."

"Hawthorne and— What?"

One should properly worry when the place they are taken to is named after two people, one of which has a double-hyphenated surname!

***

The cab hums through city traffic, headlights glinting off rain-slicked pavements. Emilia fidgets with the strap of her tote. By the merciful Jehovah, will they even let her in, considering her everyday bag looks like a well-used flour sack, the handle too long to be worn over one's shoulder and too short to go across Emilia's gargantuan bust?

She steals a glance at Daniel, who sits beside her like a calm, unmoving island in the gently swaying black leather seat. He's cool as perfectly chilled cucumber salad.

"So, Hawthorne & Smith-Vasey," she starts, her voice an octave higher than usual. "Cocktail dress boutique. For— for someone like me. That's not common, innit?"

Daniel's eyes flick to hers, eyebrows slightly hiking.

"What do you mean?"

"People like me don't get to go to luxury boutiques, Daniel," Emilia mutters. "And it's not just the question of money. I'm sorry, I know it's in bad taste to discuss these things. But I shop in Aldi for groceries, so there's that. And I buy clothes online because they're comfortable and I don't need to try them in front of other people, and—"

Oates is watching her silently. Clearly, she's speaking Greek to him right now. Their middle-aged, Middle-Eastern cabbie seems to be listening too. He's probably wondering what sort of social physics pairs Daniel 'I Look Like a British Star Unexpectedly Popular in America for My Action Parts' Oates - with Emilia, a perfect wallflower, an oversized background character.

"Daniel, I'm... fat," Emilia blurts.

The cabbie jerks. Emilia bets that he's dying to turn around. Nothing to see here, pet. Just as it says on the tin.

"And even if they have a dress I can squeeze into, it won't accomplish much," she continues, her mood taking a quick journey towards New Zealand. Her hands shake. Cue eye-prickling too. Bugger. "No matter what I'm dressed in, I'm never going to be a good enough plus-one for you."

A crinkle forms between his eyebrows.

"Marigold said she'd take care of everything. Shoes, nails, hair too."

"What?! What shoes?" Emilia sounds like a sharply squeezed dog toy. "Whose— whose nails and hair?"

"Yours."

"But— what— That doesn't happen in real life!" she finally manages to cough out a full sentence. "People don't get makeovers like in American romcoms!"

"I did," he says. "When I opened my third restaurant, Marigold found me. She approached me at a party and told me I was 'murdering the vision that I can be.'" He strokes his lapel. "She came up with the suits."

This is him being supportive, she realises. He can't empathise, not just because of how his mind works. He's a man who belongs on a cover for Men's Fitness in a white tee. Hell with it. He's a man. That alone creates an abyss between their perceptions of shopping for clothes. But he can relate her story to his – and he's trying to reassure her.

Also, him opening up about his past, even a tad, feels like a huge step forward in their relationship. Suddenly her flutters and jitters don't matter.

"She actually listened," he adds. "I wanted tees and jeans, but she promised I would be comfortable and never have to stress about it again. She was right. She can do the same for you."

"But, Daniel, I don't— I don't need an image transformation! And I surely can't afford one! And I know you said a present, but—"

"I need to go to the exhibition," he interrupts softly. "I want you there with me. I want you to meet Max. He's a mate. A dress, and other things – it's a normal expense for me."

He pauses, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words.

"I don't want to say goodbye right now," he mutters – and hesitantly picks up her hand from the seat, where she was nervously impersonating a cat biscuiting a pillow.

Emilia forgets about the cabbie, the impending visit to the Pit of Hell that is any clothing shop; and meeting a 'mate' as it turns out. Everything else vanishes.

Oh wow. He must properly fancy her. Shocker!

He studies her face for a few seconds. "Do you not want to go? To either. Did I misunderstand?"

It's funny how one little not-quite-BDSM session can attune one to their partner's tones and underlying moods. She sees clearly that he's just realised she might not be as enthusiastic about it as him; now he's willing to back off at the expense of his own pleasure.

We can't have that, can we?

She swallows. "I do want to go. Mostly. But you don't know what it's like. Finding anything that fits— to say nothing of something that looks half decent? That is romcom-level fantasy!"

"Marigold will take care of it." There isn't a spec of doubt in his tone. "I gave her your name, and she said she'd look up your photos."

Oh god. Emilia knows those: there is a couple of promo shots for her books, floating in the web. Her publisher obviously tried, but no amount of money can buy Emilia a natural smile or reduce her hamster cheeks. In a way, it's for the best: she'd hate to lie to her readers. She is just like them – a regular, real-life woman, who sometimes eats three slices of jam roly-poly for breakfast, doesn't work out, and dreams of a tall, dark, and handsome sweeping her off her feet.

Oh wait.

"You know what, sod it!" she says, picks up the lapels of his jacket, and decisively pulls him in. "Let's see what your magical buttercup can do!"

He snorts and leans in. Emilia smiles into their tender, closed-mouthed kiss.

"So obedient," she whispers.

There is a hardly audible roll of a growl in his chest, and he playfully nips her lip.

"Don't tempt me, love."

Emilia laughs. "I needed a boost of confidence."

He bends lower, and his breath brushes the side of her throat. "Fancy a spot more?"

His hand slides under her jacket onto her waist, burning through her jumper.

Oh hell's bells. Look at Emilia Arundel! Who could ever imagine her on the brink of behaving inappropriately in a cab?!

She gathers a handful of his curls behind her ear and discreetly gives it a tug.

"Down, boy. Save it for later."

She properly doesn't want their driver to witness any of it, so she's as quiet as possible; her lips basically moving against Oates' helix. 

That might make it worse. Or better.

He closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing, and his cannonball left fist is tight on his lap. So, better then. Definitely better.

Emilia might have just discovered the ultimate torture tool for Daniel Oates – but one must always confirm. After all, 4C all the way: Caring, Communication, Consent, Caution.

"Are you actually enjoying it, or is this the wrong kind of painful?" she asks.

He picks up her hand, his fingers gently wrapped around her wrist – and places it on his raging erection.

Bloody hell.

It's not just raging. It's fulminating. Kicking up. Railing. All puns about riding the rails included.

"Oh, that does seem rather uncomfortable," Emilia coos – and gives it a light brush of her thumb. "And there's still the visit to the shop, all that stripping and trying on dresses. And stripping again."

The part of him twitches in response, nudging her palm.

"And then we will be wandering a boring party." Emilia is having way too much fun! She'd even assume she's getting more out of this experience than he does. Except their eyes meet – and there's a storm of pleasure and suffering in his gaze. "And if your Marigold succeeds, and I'll look somewhat attractive," Emilia decides to up the stakes, "all you'll get is leering at my arse while pretending to socialise."

The groan that escapes him is a lovely reward for her hushed teasing – or maybe it's the tiny squeeze she's just given him. He clears his throat, hiding the noise.

"I'm starting to look forward to it." Emilia withdraws her hand – not without the last twisting motion, just enough to make him jolt, but not enough to alert the driver. "I hope they've got food at the exhibition," she adds, perfectly nonchalant. "I'm starving."

He swipes his palm over his eyes and forehead, and blows an exhale through rounded lips. Emilia counts this as an absolute success.

"Yeah, me too."

He is so not talking about getting chips afterwards! He unnecessarily adjusts his lapels and cufflinks. She watches him settle into his usual confident public persona – cucumber mode activated -  and mischief wakes up.

"Well, depending on how tonight goes, I might be convinced to invite you over. For dessert."

Oates grows still, eyes glassy – then drops his head on her shoulder, making her buckle under the weight.

"I fucking— didn't need this image."

"Well, you know the safe word," Emilia whispers. "Unless I hear it, I can feed you any images I want. And you will lap them up."

"Em..."

"Yes, babes?"

"I –" He stumbles over his next words, then huffs, his breath tickling her neck. He straightens to face her. "I properly fancy you."

"Oh... Me too!" Emilia beams and quickly kisses his cheek.

"Mazel tov," the cabbie chimes in. "And you're here."