PREVIEW

... round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one’s heard of but everyone pretends to love.

When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts—this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She’d sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into its soul.

One look at the dress, and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accid ...

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