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"What are you planning to wear tonight?"
I look down at my usual ensemble. "This."
"No," he says simply. "How much time do I have?"
"For what?"
"For getting you some jeans. From this century."
"Em—"
"Non. Negotiable. Get off your bony ass. You can thank me tomorrow."
Fifty minutes later, I'm standing in the dressing room staring at the guy in the mirror, without a shred of recognition.
"Let's see," Emmett's voice booms through the curtain.
Resigned, I slide the fabric along the metal bar and step into the brightly lit showroom.
"Well?" I ask, hands on hips.
A/N: This century. Sorry Ed. Onward...