The Fiancée Fiasco by Alyssa Kress

arms over his chest and frowned at the ridiculous spectacle.
    "Don't you think I know that?" Roseanne scowled. "None of the other dresses are going to be any better. Believe me. Let's just buy this one and get it over with."
    Shaking his head, Winthrop tsked in disapproval. "Giving up so quickly, Roseanne. That doesn't seem like you."
    "I've been through this many times, Win. None of them are going to work."
    "You've never been through it with me." He gave her an uncertain smile. "Come on. I'll help."
    " You will?" Roseanne was incredulous, to put it mildly.
    "Yes, I will." Win walked past her, assuming she'd come along as he made his way toward the racks of dresses. "I'm good with mechanical things, remember." At the rack, he swished one dress past another with a concentrated frown. "The female body is just like any other mechanical model. Certain, er, features need to be...contoured...uh, given the proper drapery."
    Despite herself, Roseanne felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "I see."
    "Not quite yet. Now understand, there are different typologies of female figures." Evidently warming to his topic, Win continued to flip through the racks. "There is the Corvette typology, all curves." He glanced down at the blue gown she still wore. "The type for which that dress is made."
    "I'm not a Corvette, then." Roseanne made the obvious deduction.
    "No, sweetheart, that you are not." Winthrop frowned, pausing on a pale green velvet number. Then he shook his head and flipped it past.
    "Which means I am which typology?" By now she was rather curious.
    Winthrop paused in what he was doing and gave her a brief but thorough inspection. What he could see beneath the billowing mound of satin was beyond Roseanne, but she felt the force of his eyes roving over her body nonetheless.
    "You're rather unique, I have to admit. To give a name to it, though, I'd say you fit into the racehorse typology, thoroughbred variety."
    "Thoroughbred?" Roseanne was nearly laughing now.
    "That's right. A three-year-old filly, I'd say. Still all legs and withers but a good, solid form underlying."
    Roseanne did laugh then. "I'm not sure whether you just insulted me or paid me a compliment."
    "Neither one. I'm being purely objective. Ah! This. Here we go." Winthrop pulled a lavender sheath of silk from the rack and eyed it approvingly.
    "That thing is strapless," Roseanne remarked, more critical. "I can just see myself all evening long, pulling it up over my—"
    "Try it on," Winthrop interrupted her, with something suspiciously like a blush tinging his cheeks. He shoved the dress into her hands.
    Roseanne shrugged and clumped back to the dressing area.
    The dress didn't look like much when hanging from the hook in her dressing room. But once she got it on, she could see the magic balance between her slender straightness and the skintight curves of the silk sheath.
    The bodice stood to attention at the upper curve of her small breasts, emphasizing the little she had with a gentle approval. The lack of sleeves gave an otherwise uninspiring décolletage just the right taste of temptation. Banners of silk made a modish bustle in back, lending her lean hips a womanly curve.
    For a few minutes all she could do was stare at herself in the mirror, disbelieving.
    The dress made her look like a million bucks.
    "So? What's going on?" Winthrop pushed open the wood slat door of the dressing room. He stopped with one arm holding the door open. His gaze went to her image in the mirror. And stayed there. "That's it." A definite gleam rose into his eyes as he continued to regard her reflection.
    She turned her head to look at him directly. What was getting into the guy? He used to be shy, but now he was bursting into women's dressing rooms and then feasting on them with his eyes.
    Winthrop ignored her gaze and walked slowly toward the image in the mirror. Roseanne watched, tensing as he reached out his hand and gently, slowly touched the two-dimensional woman. He ran