There’s a card attached. Thick cream cardstock, like the ones sold at actual stationery stores instead of the greeting card aisle at CVS. His handwriting is precise and slightly old-fashioned—more strokes than necessary, like he learned penmanship from a different era.
Green suits you. —J
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside makes me forget how to breathe.
Emerald silk. Simple cut—elegant without being fussy. The dress looks effortless, but I bet it cost a fortune. I look at the label: a designer I’ve seen on red carpets, but never in my closet.
I check the size. It’s exactly right.
Which is either thoughtful or slightly creepy—how does he know my size? We’ve had one dinner. Did he guess? Did he have someone look it up? Did I input it in Spellbound? If so, why would they give that info to a guy? Girls would never want the guy to know our dress size.
Oh my, this is too much. I should be annoyed, right? Isn’t this presumptuous?
Before I can answer myself, I try it on.
The silk slides over my skin like water. Cool and smooth and perfect. I stand in front of my full-length mirror and barely recognize myself.
This isn’t Glowstagram Poppy—carefully curated, strategically filtered. This is someone else. Someone who belongs at galas and gallery openings. Someone who dates mysterious billionaires who send designer dresses before dinner.
My phone buzzes.
JULIAN: Did it arrive?
I take a photo in the mirror—just the dress, no face, preserving some dignity—and send it.
ME: It’s too much.
JULIAN: It’s exactly enough.
ME: Julian. I bet this costs more than my car.
JULIAN: Your car is a 2019 Honda Civic. That’s not a high bar.
ME: How do you know what car I drive???
JULIAN: It was in your file.
ME: That’s creepy
JULIAN: That’s thorough. How about I pick you up at seven?
ME: Tonight?
JULIAN: Yes. You sounded like you could use some company, so I rearranged my schedule to be here for you.
ME: Really?
JULIAN: Perks of owning the company.
ME: What if I was busy tonight?
JULIAN: Are you?
ME: No
JULIAN: So seven?
