The Frock Up / Pier Pressure (Paperback SIGNED)

The dress was calling me.

I stared at the hot little number in the window of the far-too-expensive-for-my-taste boutique, my insides practically quivering with lust.

You could just try it on. Just see how it feels. You don't have to commit to anything.

The traitorous voice I liked to refer to as Millionaire Millie attempted to break down my willpower.

Unlike Millionaire Millie, I was not able to afford dresses worth hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Alas, being the c0-owner of a struggling graphic design firm didn't get you far these days.

Just a little peek. I mean it's not often you find such wonderfully gorgeous dresses in your size.

I gave in, my hands pushing open the door to the store, my feet carrying me inside before I could even think to stop myself.

"Welcome to Alexa Ina Boutique, can I help you today?"

"I'd like to try on that one, please." I pointed at the gorgeous golden dress in the store window.

"Oh!" the saleswoman purred. "Great choice."

She found my size then led me down a short hall to a dressing room. n attractive man sat outside one of the stalls, a baby sleeping in a pram beside him. He had the kind of nerdy-but-cool looks I normally went for. He flipped through his phone not even bothering to glance up as we passed.

Why are all the good ones taken?

"Just in here."

She hung the dress carefully on a hook then shot me a grin. "I'll be right back. Call if you need anything."

As the door closed, I gazed in adoration at the gorgeous dress.

Just one little try. You don't have to purchase it. Just give it a little twirl.

The price tag had far too many zeroes for my budget but I shrugged off my fake designer dress and shimmied the figure-hugging frock up over my thick thighs, across my apple butt, and up my torso. I contorted myself in two, attempting to get the zipper up. It caught for a moment then pulled smoothly to the top, settling the material around my body with a loving embrace.

I twisted, staring at myself in the mirror.

Oh, yes.

The gorgeous gold fabric hugged all of my curves in a way that accentuated and flattered. 

I look good. Really good. 

I wanted nothing more than to live in this dress. I wanted to wear this dress to a red-carpet premiere and Sunday dinner. I wanted to sleep in this dress.

For the price you'd be paying for it you'd need to.

With a heavy sigh, I gave one last twirl, giggling as the light danced off the beading.

Alright Millie, back to reality.

With another sigh, I reached for the zipper, frowning as it caught just above my hips.

I twisted, looking over my shoulder to see if the material had caught in the teeth.

I couldn't see anything, so reached for the tab again, giving it a hard yank.

No movement.

Okay, this is weird.

I pulled at the material, trying to work the zippered prison down my body, wincing when I heard the seams groan in protest as I pulled it up and over my butt. With a shimmy, I attempted to get it past my hips to no avail.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!

"How does it look?" The saleswoman asked, giving my door a light knock.

"Ah, wonderful. But I seem to have... that is...." I swallowed, my palms beginning to sweat. "I think the zipper is stuck."

"Oh, that happens sometimes. Can I come in and help?"

I yanked the skirt back down, hiding my underwear.

"Okay."

I opened the door and she slipped through, the guy on the other side still glued to his phone.

Must be an engrossing game.

The sales assistant gave the zipper a tug, letting out a surprised huff when it didn't budge.

"Hmm, just a moment." She stuck her head out the door, calling, "Gwen, can you come in here please?"

My cheeks flushed as Gwen joined us in the tiny stall.

"Oh, this happens all the time," she assured me, taking a firm grip on the zipper. "Ready? One, two—" She yanked down, the fabric protesting as the zipper remained fixed in place.

"Oh."

Oh? Oh!? What does 'Oh' mean?

"Is... is everything okay back there?" I asked, anxious butterflies now taking flight in my belly.

"Ah, it seems the zipper has broken. Not your fault, looks like a fault with the dress. Let's take this off another way." With a rough yank, she attempted to pull the dress up, managing to send me tripping into the mirror with a yelp.

"Ah, I see the problem," she said with a shake of her head. "Your derriere is disproportionate to your hips. Perfect for this dress, not so great for being stuck in it."

A quick glance in the mirror revealed the material was now bunched at my hips, my novelty print underwear on full show.

This is my punishment for listening to Millionaire Millie—abject mortification.

"Look, how about I just buy this one—" I began, horrified at the idea of anyone seeing more of my body.

"Don't fret, we'll get you out."

Gwen reached for the top of the dress, giving it a sharp pull, the material falling to pool around my waist. Now both my top and bottom half were on show—displaying my hamburger underwear and Pokémon bra.

So, this is hell. I always wondered what it would be like. Turns out it's having your wildest dream of living in your favourite dress fulfilled in the worst possible way.

With a shake of her head, Gwen tapped a finger against her lips.

"I think we'll need to cut it."

"I'm sorry, did you say—" I leaped back as she pulled a Stanley knife from her pocket. "What are you doing!?"

She gestured at the knife. "Cutting you out."

"Abso-fucking-lutely not!" I squealed, pressing into the back of the stall. "I will live in this dress for the rest of my life before I allow you to bring that knife anywhere close to my skin!"

"But—"

"Excuse me," a male voice sounded from the other side of the stall door. "I can't help but overhear."

I closed my eyes, the heat of my blush enough to give me a sunburn.

Please God, take me now.

He pushed the door open, and I was mortified to realize that the guy who'd been playing on his phone was no mere mortal.

No, he looked like a Greek god. Tall, dark, stunning green eyes, a flop of dark hair—a nerdy dreamboat in my shipwreck of a life.

I don't know what I did to accrue this kind of karma but it must have been hella bad for this to happen.

"May I be of assistance?"

My soul, which had already made peace with the fact I was going to be buried in this dress, scoffed.

And what exactly can you do, Mr. Attractive? Whip out some WD-40? Perhaps you have a spare stick of butter in your back pocket? Some olive oil in your kid's pram? 

He reached out, his hands settling on my hips as he turned me, gently smoothing a small amount of the material. I felt his hands fist the fabric just above the zipper, his skin warm on my back.

I twisted my neck, looking over my shoulder. "What are you—"

With a rough yank, he ripped the zipper apart, the material parting as if he were Moses and it the Red Sea.

"How did you…?"

He grinned, reaching up to brush hair from his forehead. "Not the first time I've been involved in a zipper-related rescue."

"I... thank you."

He winked. "Don't mention it. I'm Ash by the way."

"Hi, I'm—"

The baby began to cry outside the stall.

"Shit, sorry. I'm on baby-watching duty. Nice to meet you, zipper girl."

He stepped out of the stall, leaving me with the gaping sales assistants.

Gwen shook off her shock first.

"So, can I ring this up for you?" she asked, touching the material I'd clutched to my chest.

"You mean the prison dress?"

She nodded, her face earnest.

For once, Millionaire Millie and I were in perfect agreement.

"No."