Page 104 of Love Felt Like This

“Oh. She’s here to make me look pretty?” I ask.

He stares at me long enough that my nervous foot starts to bounce.

“I’m kidding,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says. “You’re already pretty.”

Ava comes barreling down the hall, hands already clutched around a juice box she found who knows where. She holds it out to Griffin, but he turns too late, and they collide. Red juice breaks through the small hole in the top, all over his jeans and white T-shirt.

Her face falls. “Oops…”

“Hey, good thing Daddy’s changing anyway, huh?”

Silently, Ava nods, and Griffin crouches down, takes the straw, and inserts it into the already-popped-open top. “Be more careful, munchkin. And try not to make a mess. We don’t want to make Nancy’s job difficult.”

I wonder who Nancy is. Maybe his cleaner? His nanny? Nancy the nanny sounds like an excellent puppet character for Birds. Do I need a new character?

“Ready, go!” Griffin says, as if announcing the start of a car race.

“Go!” Ava echoes, running into a room across the hall.

He turns around and follows her, grumbling something to himself about the shirt. Before I can respond with a joke, he grabs the bottom edge of the fabric and pulls the shirt across his body and over his head.

I freeze at the sight of shirtless Griffin. It’s only his back, but I’ve never seen a more erotic back in my life. Walls of muscle bulge over his shoulders and arms. They curve under smooth skin, moving everything in waves and synchronized shifts like tectonic plates. His broad ribs taper into a fit waist. The waistband of his tight black underwear peeks out over the leather belt, curving from his lower back to…

I slowly pace backward into my empty room and shut the door.

I’m alone for the first time in hours. I’m alone in Griffin’s mansion. With him shirtless on the other side of this door.

Oh God, I’m about to be prepped for the red carpet.

I’m gonna be in the spotlight again.

I should be at home writing scripts. Planning the pitch. I shouldn’t be here. I certainly shouldn’t be seeing Griffin without a shirt on. I definitely shouldn’t still be thinking about him. I shouldn’t be—

My eyes snag on something in the corner. Hanging over the door to the walk-in closet is the most beautiful emerald dress I’ve ever seen. Holding my breath in case I ruin it, I step closer and roll the fabric through my fingers. It’s a lush, slippery silk. Pristine. Classy.

Minutes later, an older woman with a black bob arrives in my room, shepherding a small team of people carrying bins and toolboxes and laptops. I quickly learn her name is Greta and that Greta is the type of woman who walks like she’s late for everything and speaks like we’re exchanging nuclear codes—quick but low.

We spend an hour or three with a small gaggle of people pulling and poking and priming me. After a combined struggle between all of us to fit me into my dress and zip it up, I finally look in the full mirror in the corner.

My body ices over. Any unfrozen blood shoots up to my brain. I might be hallucinating. I’m definitely hallucinating. Because the woman looking back at me is a stranger. She’s not awkward or gangly or hauling purple bags under her eyes.

This version of Beverly is stunning.

She has a full set of lashes fanning over smoky eyeshadow and winged liner, accentuating green eyes that can’t possibly be mine. The matching emerald dress fits me like a glove, hugging what few curves I have and cascading down to my ankles into a pool at my feet. I take a step forward, and the fabric trails behind me in a beautiful train, sliding like water across the hardwood. The square neckline is cut lower than I’d normally like, but it’s so classic Hollywood that I don’t care, plus, it cinches my small breasts enough to make them look fuller than they have any right to be.

Greta loops her hands around my neck, fastening a shimmering choker of diamonds. Although it’s thick, it also makes my neck look longer somehow. Elegant. Matching earrings peek through my wispy hair, which is now fanned out and reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett’s iconic look.

“It seemed like it’d fit you,” my hairdresser said earlier in the hour.

She wasn’t wrong.

I don’t look like me at all, yet I still feel like me.

In the mirror’s reflection, the bedroom door opens. My heart stumbles over itself, barrels downstairs, and falls flat when I see Griffin enter the room.

I twist on my bare feet to face him, and he halts, frozen in place when our eyes meet. He slowly scours over every part of me, from my hair to my choker and down to my hips before snapping back up.