Page 73 of Find My Way Down to You

I’ve never seen anything so stunning. It’s a deep navy. The slacks are creased. A banded collar on the shirt. But it’s the jacket that steals my breath—golden embroidered flowers stream from the left shoulder to the chest, down the right sleeve.

Daffodils.

When my fingers brush them, the petals shudder. I smile.

Aminta snaps her fingers. “Put it on. And be quick.”

I look around, wide-eyed. There’s no en suite. No secret side door with a changing room. Just the privacy screen.

“Here?”

She sighs impatiently. “Yes. We cannot havemortalsrunning around Aides in their undergarments.”

Cary’s eyes flick over me. Fire bursts across my face. “I didn’t plan to attend the ball in my boxers, thanks,” I gripe.

“Good.” Aminta yanks the suit off the hanger. She shoves it at my chest. “No one wants to see that. Now change.”

I hold the garment close. “How do you know it’ll fit?”

Her face screws up like she can’t believe my audacity to ask that question. Irritation sharpens her glare. “Prince Milos has his ways.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—”

Cary steps between us. “Minta,” he says, cutting off her hiss. “He is aguest. You can go. I will wait with him. Do not fear. I will ensure he does not wander.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

A flicker of warning circles Cary’s eyes when he looks at me. He’s silently telling me to shut up. When I do, he says, “I am.”

Huffing, Aminta turns to the mirrors. She smooths out the bodice of her gown. No doubt to impress Milos. I fight the urge to make a face in the reflection. Her emerald nails tap along the tablet’s screen.

My pulse quickens.

“Do not be long,” she says, slicing off a glare in my direction.

After she’s gone, I whisper, “Thank you.”

He nods once, then motions to the privacy screen.

“You can change behind there. No one will bother you.”

He walks to the other side of the room. Turns his back to me. My neck warms at the kind gesture.

As I strip out of my stained T-shirt, I ask, “What are these celebrations like?”

“Lavish. Loud. Long,” Cary says dryly. “All things Milos loves.”

I snort. “I’m guessing you don’t?”

“Not at all. I usually avoid them.”

“You do?”

“Trust me, once you have been to one, that is more than enough.”

Does that mean he hates parties, like me? My fingers rest nervously on the waistband of my joggers. The screen is opaque, framed in black.