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If I don’t go, I’ll spend the evening on the couch with ice cream and a familiar TV show, and maybe a late-night walk on the beach before I fall into bed. Things that would all normally seem much more appealing than going out to a glamorous party where I’ll undoubtedly feel out of place, and where everyone is going to make me uncomfortable. But the thought of canceling on Dante and doing that tonight—
All I can think of is what I’ll be missing out on. His eyes skimming over me in a dress hechosespecifically for me, imagining my bare skin underneath it. His hand on my thigh. His voice in my ear. The taste of champagne on his lips, his hand on the small of my back as we dance.
My skin burns, imagining it. And jealousy burns through me, imagining him there alone, whispering to someone else instead. Dancing with someone else. Finding someone to occupy his time with since I stood him up.
I reach up, pulling the dress off of the hanger. I rubbed the vanilla sugar-scented lotion that I save for special occasions all over myself after the shower, making sure every inch of me was silky smooth, and I can feel the results as I slip on the dress. The material glides over my skin, settling on my body as if it were tailor-made for me, clinging in all the right places.
It feels utterly lewd, wearing it with nothing on underneath. My breasts aren’t so big that Ihaveto have a bra on, and the silk is thick enough that the outlines of my nipples don’t show. I could be wearing a thong beneath it, but I wonder how many people will question whether I am or not. Certainly at a party like this, no one willexpectme to not be wearing panties.
I leave the heels for now, going into the bathroom and taking the rollers out of my hair. It falls, thick and dark, around my face, in elegant Hollywood siren waves. I do a thin cat eye and a swipe of mascara, and although I don’t own any lipstick, the lack of it only serves to draw attention to the dress. I swipe a clear balm over them instead for a hint of shine, and then go back to the bedroom to add the finishing touches.
I barely recognize myself when I’m finished. I reach for my phone as I look at the time, texting Dante to let him know that I’m ready. I questioned whether it was a good idea for him to come and pick me up, assuming his driver would bring him and it would be noticeable—if anyone was still watching him—that someone who didn’t belong in this neighborhood was here.
But when I walk downstairs, I don’t see the sleek black town car or SUV that I expect. Instead, idling at the curb, is the Mercedes Gullwing that I saw in the garage.
My mouth drops open a little. It’s an exquisite car, and the beauty of it is only enhanced by Dante stepping out of the driver’s side, that familiar smile on his face. It changes to a look of stunned desire when he sees me, his hand going still on the door as he freezes in place.
“You look—” He swallows hard. “God, Emma. You look exquisite.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” I cross the space between us, still uncertain of the heels, and lean up to give him a light kiss. “You look incredible, too.”
He’s wearing an impeccably tailored tuxedo, his hair smoothed back, his sharp jaw clean-shaven. His green gaze sweeps over me once more, taking in every inch of me in the red dress, before he seems to come back to himself and starts to guide me to the other side of the car.
“It’s lucky I picked you up instead of coming upstairs,” Dante murmurs as he slides back into the driver’s seat. “We’d have missed the entire event.”
I smooth my hands over my skirt nervously, acutely aware of how the silk spills to either side, revealing my legs up to the upper part of my thighs. “I feel like a Bond girl,” I joke, a laugh catching in my throat as I glance over at Dante.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as one. I left my license to kill at home, though, unfortunately.” Dante smirks at me, and I roll my eyes.
“That’s good. I think these sorts of events frown on that type of behavior.”
“How would you know? You said you’ve never been to one.” Dante winks at me as we pull away from the curb, and I sink back into the butter-soft leather of the seat.
“I almost didn’t go to this one. I’m going to trip and fall in these heels.”
“Then just hold on to my arm all night.” There’s that thread of lust in Dante’s voice again, and his hand rests on my upper thigh, his fingers skimming over the smooth skin. “You smell good enough to eat.”
“It’s the lotion I used.” My voice cracks. “This might have been a bad idea—”
“Emma.” He squeezes my thigh lightly, and my breath catches in my lungs. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I didn’t think it would be a fun evening for us both.”
My stomach dips at that, in a swoop of emotion that is very close to what I’ve tried to avoid feeling for this man. “I’m sure it will be,” I manage, forcing more confidence than I feel into my voice.
The party is being held at the Museum of Art, and I feel a small flutter of excitement as we approach. The rows of tall lanterns in front of it are all lit up against the dark sky, palm trees silhouetted just beyond them, and I see rows of cars lined up for the valet as men in tuxedos and women in dresses every bit as gorgeous as mine step out. Flashbulbs go off as reporters and paparazzi take pictures, and Dante pulls up to the curb, letting the car idle as he opens the door. He hands his keys off to a maroon-uniformed valet, coming around to open my door.
I put my hand in his, and for one blinding instant, I feel transported. I could be a movie star, my hand in my handsome co-star’s as he helps me out of the vehicle and onto a red carpet as cameras go off all around us. It’s the sort of cliche Hollywood fantasy that I would have laughed at on any other night, that I would have always insisted I had no interest in, but I feel my heart flutter at the imagery for just a moment.
And it’s not entirely far off. Dante isn’t a celebrity, but he’s well-known enough that pictures are being taken. His arm goes around my waist as a rattle of cameras go off. My momentary thrill is dampened by the realization that if Rico looks at the wrong social media tomorrow, he’ll see me on Dante’s arm.
A cold knot forms in my stomach, and I go very still.Surely, he won’t look at anything like that. He doesn’t have any interest in some gala being thrown at a museum. But the creeping feeling of dread doesn’t let up, and when Dante turns towards me, I know he can tell something is off.
“Are you alright?” He frowns at me with concern, and I take a breath, doing my best to shake it off. Tonight has the potential to be a wonderful night, and I don’t want to let anything ruin it. A moment ago, I was beginning to be very glad I came.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, forcing a smile and putting my hand on his arm. “I’m just not used to having my picture taken. Especially not so many times at once.”
Dante laughs, tucking my hand into his arm as we turn towards where everyone else is beginning to walk towards the museum. “You get used to it,” he says with a smirk, and I shake my head.
“When you say things like that, I remember what kind of man you actually are.”
