Read Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 for Free Online Page A

morning she’d board a plane for Tampa, and there was no way she’d make the trip with a suitcase of her conservative clothes. How in the world would she be comfortable flashing the masses—if she actually got the nerve to do it—in her designer blouses? The only way to let her wild side go was to look, well, wild. And the only way to look wild was to shop . . . where Babette shopped.
    She glanced across the street and swallowed hard. The Body Boutique’s elongated windows glowed with flaming neon, not from the lighting, but from the outfits. They were a direct contrast to the navy-and-white ensembles currently gracing the window displays at Eubanks. Gleaming bright green, sizzling magenta and blinding yellow and intensified by black lights, they commanded so much attention that traffic slowed to a crawl outside the popular store.
    Clarise sat in her car and scouted the trendy shop. It wasn’t nearly as classy an entrance as the one at Eubanks Elegant Apparel, but Clarise wasn’t looking for classy. She needed
sassy.
No, she wouldn’t have thought the vibrant colors in season, but she had to admit, they were attention grabbing.
    The lanky mannequins, provocatively posed, flirted as though they weren’t inanimate objects. And in Clarise’s opinion, they weren’t. They bristled with a lust for life, raw sensuality and plain fun—everything she wanted.
    Unfortunately, she suspected that the Body Boutique’s size range didn’t extend to double digits. Although Babette had purchased several items from the notable store, Clarise had never set foot in the place. True, the size factor was a major obstacle, but there was also the rule that she was only allowed to wear “Eubanks Apparel” to work. Preston Eubanks, and Ethan too, for that matter, didn’t believe in “advertising the competition.” Not that the Body Boutique could compete with Eubanks Elegant Apparel, which only sold the finest of women’s clothing. However, fine clothing wasn’t what she needed. On the contrary, Clarise’s plans for Gasparilla called for wild, attention-getting party clothes, like the ones displayed so prominently in Body Boutique’s windows. But could she find the nerve to go inside? A year ago, she’d have said no. But that was the old Clarise, the one who wasn’t planning to bare her goods at Gasparilla.
    Clarise inhaled, held the breath a moment, then snarled it through her nose like a ferocious bull eyeing the target. Except her target wasn’t red; it was several shades of neon. Determined, she climbed out of the car and stomped toward the building. The windows pulsed from a mad rhythm beating inside. Clarise tried to put her finger on the tune. It was extremely familiar . . .
    Blondie?
    She opened the door. Sure enough, “One Way or Another” belted from every wall and the ceiling. And, judging from the tremble against the soles of her shoes, the floor. Clarise closed the door, stepped forward.
One way or another, I’m gonna find ya, I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha.
Each tiny scrap of fabric whispered and chanted along. “I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha . . .”
    Tie-dyed. Had everything around her converted to a tie-dyed version, or was the room spinning? What had she been thinking coming here? With this huge amount of color and small amount of fabric? This was Babette’s kind of store, definitely not Clarise’s. She swallowed, bit her lip and turned to retreat. She’d taken the bull by the horns, and he had promptly speared her.
    “Hi! I’m Shannon—Shannon Bainbridge! Welcome to Body Boutique!”
    Clarise loosened her death grip on the door handle and swiveled toward the chirpy sound. An ebony-haired all-of-one-hundred-pounds-soaking-wet pixie grinned back. Yep, this confirmed it. She’d willingly stepped into her own personal hell, and everyone else was tiny. Super. “Hi,” Clarise managed, in spite of her sudden urge to hurl.
    “Are you looking for something special?”