“No,” I blurt, my face undoubtedly turning a violent shade of crimson right up to the tips of my ears. “I mean, well, yes, I do, but…”
He brings the hand that I have resting on his arm up to his mouth and brushes his lips across my knuckles. In response, my stomach tightens. “Thank you, little bird. I think you’re beautiful, too. And I think I like when you call me Cy.”
I hadn’t even realized I had, but more to the point, I also hadn’t intended to pressure him into saying something that isn’t true.“You don’t have to say that,” I tell him quickly, glancing down at my worn dress as we start to walk again. “That I’m beautiful, I mean.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because…you know why. Just look at me.”
“I do, Cora. To an extent that some might argue borders on unhealthy—”
“I know that we’re together a lot—”
“—or even obsessive.”
“—but I am very aware of how I appear in comparison, and you don’t need to pretend.”
“To pretend?”
“Because I don’t belong—”
He halts us once more, turning to face me, right in the middle of the sidewalk, so that several people clear their throats in annoyance at having to move around us. Cypress doesn’t seem to notice or care, the intensity in his gaze finally putting an end to my rambling before he murmurs softly, “You do belong. You’re right where you’re meant to be. Now, tell me what is making you think that you aren’t.”
“You look so nice,” I say, gesturing at the neat lapels of his long black coat before moving to the frayed skirt of my dress. “And I look…”
“Clothes?” he asks, my point setting in at long last. “You’re worried about your clothes? What people think of them?”
I give him a look of exasperation. “Youof all people—”
“Ah,” he starts, knowing where I’m headed. “But I wear these clothes becauseIlike them. Yes, they do also help with certain aspects of my profession, but the main reason is that I, as Aiden so nicely puts it, prefer to dress as a well-moneyed undertaker.”
I burst out laughing. “You donotlook like a—” I take in his usual all-black ensemble, and I do have to agree, there is a certain element that makes him look like he’s headed for afuneral. “Well…”
“Don’t feel that you must protect my vanity,” he says, smiling himself. “I enjoy looking like I shepherd souls as much as Aiden enjoys looking like he shepherds cattle. The point is that ifyoulike your clothes, that’s all that matters.”
“But,” I argue, “aren’t you concerned that no one in this town is going to think you’re rich if they’re looking down their noses at—”
He pulls me closer with a hand on my waist, and suddenly I’m far less focused on my dress and far more on his proximity. “First of all, certain people will always find a reason to look down on you. Only you can decide if you’ll bend low enough to let them.” He places his fingers under my chin, tilting my face up as he murmurs close to my ear, “Second, I couldn’t care less what you wear, Cora. If it were up to me…well, we will leave that confession for another time, but suffice it to say, when it comes to your clothing, my onlyconcernis ifyoulike them. Do you?”
“No,” I say quietly.
“Then why are you wearing them?”
“They’re all I have.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Well then, let’s change that.”
Before I have a chance to get my wits about me again, we’re moving, walking halfway down the street until Cypress unhooks his arm from mine to instead place a hand at my lower back and steer me into a nearby shop. As the tinkling bell overhead announces our arrival, a pretty, middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up. “Can I assist you?”
“No,” I say as Cypress replies, “Yes.”
“Perhaps you need a moment?” the shopkeeper asks, unconsciously straightening her white blonde hair and her blue blouse as she looks at Cypress. Then she glances between the two of us in obvious interest. “Or perhaps you’re looking for something in particular?”
I shake my head, knowing there cannot be a thing in this boutique that is realistically within my reach. “Cypress, I don’t…” I spy a gorgeous, dark green dress in the window, and I nearly bite my lip to keep a sigh from escaping. “I don’t have money for new clothes.”
“I do,” he says easily. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” I argue.