“You’re staring,” she whispers. “Can’t help it,” I whisper back. Her hands flutter in front of her before she fists them in the material of the skirt. “Is it—does it look bad?” “Bad?” I snap my eyes back to hers. “Harriet. You’re lovely.” Her hands smooth over the skirt again. “It’s quite the dress,” she says. “I’m not talking about the dress.”
