“It screams I’m alive, babe. You’re twenty-five, not seventy. Own it.”
In the end, Maya had only gotten Harper to back off by insisting on keeping her jean shorts—and unbuttoning the white linen polo for some kind of balance. Originally, Harper wanted her to wear just the long white shirt over the bikini.
“It’s breezy. It’s chic. Let the world breathe,” she’d said dramatically.
But the shirt was so thin, Maya felt practically naked the moment sunlight hit it. It may as well have been made of mist.
So now, standing in the lobby with all eyes subtly (or not-so-subtly) drifting toward her, she felt a hot flush creep up her neck.
This is why I didn’t want to wear this.
She tugged at the edge of her open polo, fingers brushing the waist of her jean shorts. They were a small comfort—someth
