I stare at the phone. At the dress. At my reflection—this stranger in emerald silk who’s apparently going on a date with a man who memorizes her car model and sends couture without asking.
ME: I’d love tha—
No, that’s way too forward. I delete it before I hit send. Instead, I say: I’ll see you at 7
JULIAN: Lovely
Lovely? Who says that? But also what girl doesn’t love grand gestures, right?
ME: Heart
I really need to text Sage. Get a reality check. Remember that this is fake, this is a job, this is a transaction that ends after my sister’s wedding.
No, I don’t want a reality check right now. Hair first. Maybe Sage after. But honestly, probably not.
At 6:58, my buzzer rings. Of course he’s early. What did I expect? I mean, he totally seems like the type of person who’s exactly two minutes early. The type of guy who shows up not so early it’s awkward, not so late it’s disrespectful. I bet he was early, and just hung out in his car until it was a couple of minutes beforehand.
I’m not used to dating classy guys like Julian.
What am I thinking? I need to remember it’s just a job for him. Take a beat, Poppy.
With that, I take a deep breath before pressing the intercom. “Coming down.”
“Take your time.”
But I don’t take my time. I’ve been ready for twenty minutes, pacing my apartment, checking my makeup, second-guessing every decision I’ve made since the gown arrived.
He’s waiting on the sidewalk when I emerge.
The sight of him stops me on the stairs.
Dark suit—different from the one he wore to our first dinner. More fitted. More modern. It matches the dress he sent me. His hair is a little disheveled, which I’m starting to suspect is intentional. Everything about Julian Blackthorne seems intentional.
His eyes track up my body as I descend. Slowly. Deliberately. Not leering—more like he’s memorizing how the silk falls, how the color catches the evening light, and how I look in something he chose.
“You wore it,” he says.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I was hoping you would. But I wasn’t sure that you would. Most people don’t like being told what to wear.”
“Most people don’t get told by a designer label.”
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile—Julian doesn’t seem to do full smiles—but something close. “You look beautiful.”
The words are simple. His voice makes them feel like I’m more than I am.
“Thank you.” I reach the bottom of the stairs. We’re standing close now—closer than I was expecting. My heart starts beating faster.Can he hear it?I take a breath.Pace yourself.“Though I’m still deciding if the dress is romantic or controlling.”
“Can it be both?”
“No. Pick one.”
“Romantic,” he says. “Definitely romantic. I saw the color and thought of you.”
“When? You’ve been in Geneva.”
“I had it sent from a boutique in Paris. They have a personal shopper I’ve used before.”
