An hour later, I’ve paraded through Marcus’s living room in all three dresses, each one more stunning than the last. He’s given me a running commentary—the first one is powerful, the second one is a tease, the last one is not at all my style—and we’ve both lost count of how many times we’ve said “Holy shit” at the price tags.
I’m standing in front of his full-length mirror, wearing one of the gowns, when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Marcus grabbed it before I can, reading the screen with a wicked grin. “Ohhh, looks like someone is checking in.”
“Marcus, give me that?—”
He held it just out of reach, reading aloud. “‘I hope the dresses arrived. I can’t wait to see you in them.’” He wiggles his eyebrows. “He wants to see you in it, Zara. In that dress.”
I snatched the phone from him, my cheeks burning. The message is simple, direct, exactly like Lorenzo.
But underneath it, there’s another one.
Lorenzo
If what I sent does not suffice, I am happy to send someone with alternatives.
I stared at the words, my heart hammering.
Marcus read over my shoulder, letting out a low whistle. “Well. He’s certainly not subtle.”
“No,” I muttered, a strange, warm feeling spreading through my chest. “He’s not.”
I typed back a quick reply?—
Me
They’re beautiful. Thank you. But you didn’t have to do that.
Lorenzo
You deserve it.
Marcus was watching me as something in his eyes warmed. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
“I think I am.”
He pulled me into another tight hug, the silk of the dress rustling between us.
“Then you’d better make sure he knows what he’s got,” he said quietly. “Because if anyone deserves to be treated like a queen, it’s you.”
I sat there, letting his arms envelope me, tears welling up in my eyes.
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Always, babe. Always.” He pulled back, his grin returning. “Now let’s figure out how we’re going to explain to your future husband that I’m keeping that first dress for ‘emergencies.’”
“You are not keeping the dress.”
“I absolutely am. Consider it a best friend tax.”
We were still laughing when the wine finally rans out, and I fell asleep on his couch, dreaming of a man with dark eyes and dangerous hands and a future I never saw coming.
The next morning, I woke up to a text.
Lorenzo
The driver will be there at 9. I’ll be waiting. — L
