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“The only food I’m allergic to is chamomile, something I found out during an unfortunate visit to a Michelin-starred restaurant who made chamomile panna cotta.”
My heart feels full with the momentum of the moment. “So would the date be a pretend date or a real date?”
“A pretend date,” he answers promptly, which makes my stomach sink, even though I should know better. “But it has to appear like a real date.”
That’s how I find myself agonizing over my dress the next evening.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. He’s twenty-nine years old. I’m already older than him. I don’t want to dress like someone his mother would be friends with. I shove aside a conservative Dior dress that would look at home at any charity board meeting. Then again, I don’t want to appear like I’m trying too hard to appear young. I push past a skintight black dress.
This isn’t even a real date.
Ridiculous, Morelli. Get a grip.
This isn’t a real date, so I don’t have to worry about impressing anyone. That’s the magic of a fake relationship. There’s no sex, no expectations. No tender kisses beneath the stars, most likely. That makes me sad. Maybe I don’t have to choose between them. Maybe, if Finn is amenable, we could kiss again during this fake relationship.
I flip across to one dress and the next. Nothing works.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
The doorbell rings. I go and open it and find my sister, Sophia, waiting outside, her arms stuffed with fabric. “Don’t despair, sweet sister. I’m here to save you.”
“Who even told you?”
“Mom’s telling the whole city, naturally.”
Part of me wants to tell her the truth. This isn’t a real date. It’s pretend. Then again, the more people who know about it, the more risk there is of discovery. And Sophia isn’t precisely known for discretion.
Another part of me wants to know what it would be like to have a real date. Even if it’s only pretend, it will have to look real. Maybe it will even feel real.
“My closet looks like a bomb went off.”
She pushes sunglasses up on top of her head. “Let’s get to work.”
I step back. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Nooo problem,” she says in a singsong voice.
Sophia loves fashion. She knows all the designers in New York City and some in Paris. Which means she also has access to their samples, if she asks nicely.
One after another, she arranges the dresses on the bed. “Try this one first.”
I go with it into the bathroom and come out a moment later, my face scarlet. “This is way too short.”
“Turn around,” she says. I do, but I can practically feel it rolling up my ass.
“I can’t wear this.”
“You look great in it,” she says. “But if you think it’s too short, try this one.”
We go through two more before I find it. The gold wrap dress that accentuates my curves rather than hiding them. I stand in front of the mirror, turning this way and that.
“A power dress,” Sophia says with satisfaction.
“Yes,” I say, looking at how lush my ass looks right now. “It is a power dress.”
She claps her hands. “He’s going to freaking die when he sees you.”
I give her an impulsive hug. “Thank you for this, sister mine. Seriously.”
