“Look at me,” he says, one hand on his hip.
“Iamlooking at you.”
“Not like that.” He taps my chin and turns my face back to the mirror. “You look good. You know you look good. Stop actin’ like that’s a problem.”
I study my reflection, this version of me, with my hair down in loose curls, the neckline of the dress dipping just low enough to show some cleavage, and the simple gold hoops shimmering in the light as I move.
“I look like I’m tryin’ too hard,” I say.
“Youaretryin’,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You curled your hair, put on heels, and turned down every dress I brought over. Be serious.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” His tone eases. “You’re worried he’ll see it.”
I press my lips together, then let out a breath. “He already sees too much.”
“Good,” Jules says. “Then you don’t have to pretend.”
“Then why am I sweating?” I mutter, lifting both hands for emphasis. “It’s Savannah in spring, not July in hell.”
He laughs quietly. “Because you’re goin’ to a private estate for dinner with a man who looks like he should come with armed security and a liability waiver.”
“He does come with armed security.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my arm.
“There,” he says, stepping back to check his work. “Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to?—”
“You were absolutely about to touch it.”
I laugh quietly but keep my hands still, watching the curls fall into place.
I close my eyes for a second, exhale, then open them again. I stand and lean closer to the mirror, checking my lipstick. My hand isn’t shaking exactly, but it isn’t as calm as I’d prefer. I blot once and tilt my head, taking in the full picture.
“No,” Jules says from behind me.
I blink at his reflection. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face did all the work.” He steps closer, looks me over, and adjusts one of my shoulder straps. “And no, you are not overdressed.”
“I wasn’t about to say that.”
He gives me a look.
I sigh. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
“Of course you were.” His mouth curves in a knowing smile as he steps back, folding his arms. “Maggie, honey, this man is sending a car.”
“That doesn’t mean I need to get all gussied up like I’m headed to a gala.”
“No, but it does mean you’re not going to show up in a sundress and sandals like you’re headed to Sunday lunch with your mama.” He purses his lips, eyeing me like he’s already won the argument. “With a man like Alexei, you can’t be overdressed. You can only be underprepared.”
I let out a breath that sounds more dramatic than it should. “That’s not helpful.”
