Page 188 of Breaking Rosalind
“You’ve got to wear something,” he says.
“Follow me.”
I take Cesare to another side of the mall to a large store that sells walking boots, outdoor gear, and practical clothing with no frills. The mannequins are dressed in khaki and flannel, with backpacks slung over their shoulders.
He glares at a green fleece jacket and scoffs. “You going camping?”
Leaning into his side, I murmur, “I sure as hell don’t want to hunt down the Galliano brothers in a body con dress and heels.”
He snorts a laugh. “Get what you want here, but I’m taking you back to the boutique for something that doesn’t make you look like a hiker.”
I roll my eyes. If the Moirai wasn’t monitoring my bank account, I would walk away from him and spend my own money. Since that isn’t an option, I endure Cesare’s running commentary about my poor taste in fashion.
“Call me a hobo all you want.” I hold up a pair of trekking pants to my waist. “But sometimes, a woman just needs to deliver a flying kick.”
He snickers. “Point taken, but khaki?”
“I prefer to wear black.”
The image of me decked out in black tactical gear must finally register because he shakes his head and grins. “Fine, but we’re going back to the boutique.”
“After stopping for something to eat,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “I’ll take you to one of our restaurants.”
“Do they sell shots of wheatgrass?”
His lip curls. “Why the fuck would anyone want to drink juiced grass?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” I walk toward a row of tactical boots, leaving him cursing under his breath.
After buying two changes of clothes, we stop at the vegan café. It’s empty, save for a red-haired woman with freckles, who greets us with a warm smile.
I order two shots of wheatgrass, a spirulina smoothie, and a kale salad. Cesare glares at the menu as if it’s personally offensive. I take pity on him and order a portobello mushroom burger with sweet potato fries.
“First time here?” asks the red-haired assistant.
His lip curls. “And hopefully my last.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile and scurries over to the kitchen. I elbow him in the ribs for being an asshole. “You might actually like the burger.”
His cold eyes roam over the café’s green decor, his lips tightening with disapproval. “We’ll see about that.”
When he folds his arms across his chest, I see glimpses of the boy in the photo album. Sometimes, it’s hard to reconcile this version of Cesare with the creature in the leather butcher’s apron who tortured me for days.
The assistant returns with our drinks, and I pull him toward a nearby table.
Cesare takes a sip of his vegan strawberry mylkshake. I wait for him to gag or whine about the lack of cow’s milk, but he simply grunts.
“Thinner than I would prefer, but not bad,” he says, his tone gruff.
I knock back my shot of wheatgrass, letting the green liquid infuse my body with a surge of energy. Cesare watches, his lips turning downward with thinly veiled disgust.
“Your turn.” I slide the second shot across the table.
“Peer pressure won’t work on me, pet,” he mutters without even sparing the wheatgrass a glance.
His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his jacket, checks the screen, and scowls.