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Everly felt like pumping her fist or doing a touchdown dance.
She chose two more dresses before she finally decided on her word. It was not a synonym for pretty. But there was a power to it. Like peoplewould stop and pay attention. To Everly, that was what lay at the heart of being attractive. Not being invisible.
When she told Jazzy, it was with as much certainty as Everly had heard in her own voice in a long time. “Striking. My word is ‘striking.’”
Forty-five minutes later, Meryl was making the final tugs on the ribbons of Everly’s first costume and urging her out of the dressing room.
She’d barely reached the wall of mirrors before she started shaking her head. “No. Absolutelynot.”
Jazzy had started Everly off in a tiny embroidered skirt that barely hit mid-thigh, with white lace peeking out of the hem. The shirt beneath had a similar gauzy lace trim that accentuated Everly’s ample cleavage, especially with the black-and-gray-striped corset tied up to her bust. “I look like I’m trying to be a sexy milkmaid or something.”
“More pirate, I think.” Stanton stopped beside her to admire his own Robin Hood outfit in the mirror. “And I don’t see the problem.”
The point of today was to shake Everly out of her comfort zone, but this was a different kind of discomfort. She’d spend the whole day distracted by trying to make the skirt cover her whole ass. “It’s begging for a wardrobe malfunction.” She tugged up the shirt before her nipple became a star on national television. “This is… it’s not what feels sexy to me.”
Logan moved in the periphery of her vision, circling the platform to catch them from another angle. Her cheeks flushed red, and, grabbing the end of Stanton’s cloak, she draped it over herself like a bath towel. Practically every inch of her skin was on display, and she couldn’t stand the thought of what Logan’s camera—what he—might see.
“Another great shot, thanks.” He spoke the words with a grumble, but his blue eyes sparked, like a gem caught in sunlight. He was teasing her.
And she loved it.
“I have the right to deny the viewing audience an eyeful of my ass cheeks.”
Jazzy flanked Everly’s other side in a matching outfit. They were similar in size and stature and yet the costume couldn’t look more different on them. It was the way they held themselves. Everly curled in, trying to make herself smaller—trying to disappear—while Jazzy took up as much space as she could, legs spread wide in a power stance, her shoulders back and proud. She believed she looked hot. Meanwhile, Everly could hardly look at herself.
Jazzy seemed to recognize it, too. “This isn’t it.” She unraveled Everly from Stanton and his cloak and urged her back toward the dressing room. “Maybe the red one next?”
The red dress was floor length, with no corset. Instead, the clingy fabric draped out from an empire waist. On Everly’s arms, belled sleeves created a similar silhouette. With no embroidery or brocading, the vibrant red color was jarring and unappealing.
“I’m a stop sign,” she declared as she stepped out from behind the curtain.
Jazzy pursed her lips, and Everly’s stomach clenched. She was being too negative. “It’s a nice shape, though,” she added hastily.
“Romantic suits you,” Jazzy said.
Everly glanced at her reflection again. “Romantic’s a good word for it. But I feel like the color’s too much. I like muted pastels and neutrals. Something more boho-y.”
“Is boho your thing?”
“Kind of.” Everly pulled at the skirt of the dress, admiring how the fabric moved. “I never really had a style back before—”
“Swing-dress-aggedon?”
Everly let out a loud laugh. It was a sadly accurate description of hercurrent wardrobe. “Yes. Before that. I used to wear whatever I wanted, any style that looked fun. But I always felt most… striking,” the word rolled easily off her tongue, “in those loose, flowery tunics and skinny jeans and boots, with lots of draping necklaces or statement earrings.”
Jazzy pointed a finger at the mirror. “Look at your face right now.”
Everly’s gaze shifted to her reflection. She looked so happy. The light from her smile went right up to her eyes.
“That’s what I want you to feel all the time.” Jazzy held her gaze in the mirror. “Before she passed, my mom always used to say that our faces can’t lie, no matter what our mouths are doing. And your face is telling me everything I need to know right now.”
She shooed Everly away with instructions to put on the pink dress.
Ten minutes later, Everly was back at the mirrors, the hosts flanking her. Stanton had to keep pulling down her hands whenever she pressed them to her cheeks to hide her blushing.
She couldn’t stop staring at herself. This dress was the very definition of romantic. The shift was cream colored and soft, the puffy sleeves falling off her shoulders and gathering in a ruffle at her elbow. Cinched over it was a silk corset in a soft shade of light mauve with petals and flower buds stitched in rose and blush pinks. Cream ribbons served as straps, and another ribbon laced up her midsection. Cascading from the corset was an ankle-length skirt in a shade of blush that matched some of the flowers. The train was gathered in a bustle on one of her hips.
Jazzy had paired the dress with black booties, and she’d gathered half of Everly’s hair in a braided crown on the top of her head, a handful of daisies woven in. The rest showered her shoulders in auburn-brown curls. Simple pearl droplet earrings peeked out from under the loose strands.
