Don’t get too carried away with yourself. You’re also Mr. Cole’s therapy tool. Yes, I needed to remind myself of that and stay grounded.
“I’ll wait here. You have five minutes, Miss Snow,” Mr. Cole said.
“Is Babs going to fit me herself?” Her company was based in New York—at least I think it was—but Babs was in town, so I could only hope!
“She’s at the show, but Margharita, her assistant, is waiting inside.”
Wow. Good enough for me! “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
I trotted up the cement steps that led to an arched doorway in the center of the building and rang the buzzer to enter the shop. I supposed they were an appointment-only sort of place given the cost.
The door popped open, and I stepped inside, immediately blinded by the bright lights, white marble floors, and sparkly dresses worth thousands displayed on elegant manikins. A few champagne-sipping shoppers stood on low platforms while seamstresses made adjustments to their hems with pins.
At the far end of the shop, a set of French doors with smoky glass popped open, and a petite brunette waved at me. “Lily! Come in. Come in,” she said hurriedly, with a thick Italian accent. I headed inside to what looked like a small private showing room, the walls lined with two tiers of racks and packed with shiny, colorful dresses.
“Wow. I think I just died.”
“And I will be di next to go if I do not get you into a dress queeckly.” She yanked down on the straps of my dress and peeled the thing off my shoulders. “Hurry up. Get out of dat thing.”
Whoa. Okay. She hadn’t even bought me a drink.
Now with me in my heels, black lace thong and matching lace, strapless bra, she whipped out a measuring tape.
She quickly sized me up. “Bene,” she said in that thick accent, “you are a beet fawt, but I think we have a few dresses for you.”
A bit fat? I was a size six. I shot her a sour look, but she didn’t care.
“But your teets are nice, si?” she added.
“Jeez. Thanks. Did you and Mr. Cole go to the same school of compliments?”
“No,” she said sharply, looking at me with a peculiar frown. “I went to di fashion school.”
“Never mind.”
She turned away and rushed to the rack at the far end of the room. “Yes. I think deez will work nicely.” She grabbed a black sequined thing, a red silky dress, and a pink satin gown with a beaded cream cinch around the waist.
She handed me the pink one first. I kicked off my heels and stepped into it. She tried the zipper, but it wouldn’t go up.
“You are too fawt. Next dress.” If she called me fat one more time, I was going to bite her.
“What are you? Like a size ten?” I asked, wanting to point out the obvious. Of course, there was nothing wrong with a size ten, but still.
She shrugged. “I am not di one asking for a dress one hour before di big show.” She opened up the back of the black one, which was strapless and looked to be formfitting with eyelets in the back instead of a zipper.
The door swung open, and I heard that deep, familiar, masculine voice. “Miss Snow, are you rea—”
Oh crap. I turned my head, and Mr. Cole just stood there staring at my nearly naked body. I could’ve sworn I saw his Adam’s apple do a little bob. I liked it. I liked his eyes on my body. Which was why I let him look.
Margharita prompted me to step into the dress, which I did. She then went to work on the hooks and eyelets in the back. Mr. Cole’s eyes slowly moved to my face.
My breath hitched. A morbid part of me, the one that couldn’t help looking at car accidents as I drove by, waited anxiously. What would happen when he looked at my face? Would he be able to handle it without any discomfort?
God, this situation kind of sucked. Okay. No. It flat out sucked.
His eyes met mine, and then he quickly turned away from me. “Wear that one. I’ll wait outside.”
My heart did a little dive. Being around this guy was like riding an emotional roller coaster. Up, down, fast, slow, spin in a loop. I couldn’t quite seem to stop myself from feeling one way and then another.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. Don’t let it get to you, Lily. You knew this was the deal. I had to keep reminding myself that he couldn’t help it. And as horrible as he behaved sometimes, he was trying to fix his problem.
“Suck it in, girl. Suck it in,” Margharita barked, trying to fasten the last hook, which hit me mid-back.
I did as she asked, feeling the fabric squeeze my rib cage. “Eccellente!” she chirped. “Di fawt is in!”
Ohmygod. I was about to give her an earful, but then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and forgot what I was going to say. My breasts pushed up into voluptuous pillows at the top, almost like a corset effect, the waist darted in to give me a classic hourglass figure, and the hem hit me just above the knees, making my legs look long and graceful. I felt…so damned sexy. Me. Lily Snow felt really sexy.
“Wow. Thank you, Margharita.”
“It is nothing!” She handed me a pair of shimmery black satin heels with a strap that went around the ankle. She quickly helped me get them on since I couldn’t bend over so easily. The dress was really frigging tight.
Once the last buckle was on, I thanked her and scurried off, trying to keep my composure in the three-inch heels.
When I exited the door, Mr. Cole was standing there, talking on his phone. Then he stopped talking and just stared, blinking at my breasts and hips and legs and everything.
“Now that is a dress worthy of your body, Miss Snow.”
The moment that passed between us was difficult to articulate. There was this strange hollowness in my chest when he looked at me. I guess you could call it a sadness or an emptiness. And the look in his cold, hard eyes made me all too aware that he felt the same. But not about me. About himself—his inability to get past this boat anchor around his neck. At least, that’s what I guessed. But the two of us just looking at each other, seeing each other once again, profoundly affected me.
“How is it possible that the only person in the world who really sees me, can’t stand to look at me?” I asked.
The expression in his eyes softened. “I did look. And you are stunning.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t know if he meant it, but I wanted to believe he did. I looked down at my feet, my heart pounding away inside my chest.
“Now if you don’t mind. We have a fashion show to get to.” He marched out of the building, leaving me to my own devices to navigate the door and stairs.
He’s still an ass. But he was seriously starting to grow on me. “Uh…thank you for the dress!” I called out.
Going to the fashion show reminded me of eating a bowl of chocolate ice cream: so, so good, and over way too fast. And like my favorite dessert, it was addictive—the buzz in the room, the excitement and glamour. Over. Whelming. But in an “I must be dreaming” kind of way.
There were so many famous—at least I think they were—beautiful people at the show, many of them rushing to greet, kiss, hug, or snap off a photo with the infamous bachelor and sex symbol Maxwell Cole. It was a feeding frenzy of photographers and fashion reporters, who knew the moment he walked in the room that this show was the secret reveal for the new fall makeup line. Of course, given the amount of press, I suspected the news had been leaked.
And as I hung back, away from the lenses and crowds that gathered around him until we took our seats, I noticed an ease about him. The way he smiled and carried himself with confidence was utterly magnetic. This was his element, surrounded by all the beautiful people who didn’t make him sweat or panic or feel helpless.