Rule Number Three
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Rule Number Three: Don’t compliment Sophie’s outfit.
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“M’feet hurt,” Lindsey mumbles from somewhere in the depths of his arms. “M’arms hurt.” He picks his head up off of the table and looks at Eliot. It’s a pitiful sight. “M’head hurts.”
“I know,” his brother tells him again, patting the top of his aching head. “I shoulda warned ya.”
“Why didn’t you help me?” Lindsey asks, voice wavering. “You just stood there and watched her drag me away. You and the rest of the team.”
Eliot winces at the unconcealed betrayal in his twin’s eyes. He wishes he hadn’t been such a coward, but…
It was Sophie. And the idiot had gone and complimented her on her shoes. Her new purple snakeskin peek-a-boo toed Marc Jacobs.
Everyone knows that you don’t tell Sophie that her new shoes look nice. Even telling her that her new dress flatters her can have an adverse effect on your immediate social plans. Her shoes?
Instant suffering.
Sophie can do this
thing, and then suddenly, you’re standing in a boutique with her, trying on new clothes and holding her bags and following her around all day while
she tries on new hats and shoes and dresses.
It’s something the other four members of the team have learned to do out of self-preservation: Don’t compliment Sophie’s outfit unless you actually
want to go shopping with her.
Eliot pats Lindsey’s back. “At least you got a new suit out of it.” Two, actually. And five new silk ties, four pairs of argyle socks, seven button-down shirts, a pair of shiny dress shoes, a set of silver cufflinks, and a hat.
A hat. With a feather in the band. Eliot smothers a giggle.
Lindsey’s head thuds back onto the table. “But I hate suits,” comes the muffled complaint. “Remind me of Wolfram. Choke me. Alla time. I hate ‘em.”
Eliot gives Lindsey’s back another soothing pat.
There, there. “M’feet hurt.”
“I know.”
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AN: Like I said before, poor Lindsey. *giggles*
