by Sarina Bowen
A quick search on her phone pulled up a slew of society photos from past years. Lots of couture, which she could recognize even if she couldn’t afford it. The younger women frequently wore shorter cocktail dresses, but the women over thirty, the true movers and shakers of Chicago society, were almost exclusively formal, with the occasional exception of a woman in palazzo pants and a camisole, which looked more comfortable than the gowns but undoubtedly cost more than three months’ rent on her apartment.
Although she could have dressed herself as a naughty nurse with relative ease, this was a challenge.
Fortunately, she knew just who to call.
After three rings, her rescuer answered.
“Talk fast. Eliza’s been asleep for five minutes. I have to take advantage of this window or I’ll be up all night.” Sarah snapped out the words so fast Maxie realized she was lucky her sister had answered at all.
“I need couture. But Grace Jones, not Princess Grace.” She gnawed at a hangnail on her thumb and then yanked her thumb out of her mouth. Shit. She needed to get a manicure, too, goddamn it. And that was a total waste of cash, since she’d inevitably end up ruining it with shop work or carpentry or some kind of cleaning job the next day.
“Jesus, Maxie, what makes you think I would have anything like that?”
“You’re the only person I know who has any couture at all. Besides, I just need something I can work with.”
“No way. Absolutely not. You are not shredding one of my poker gowns.” Sarah had a not-so-hidden weakness for occasional high-stakes poker. She usually placed pretty high in the money when she played, but she never kept her winnings. She claimed it offended the “poker gods,” so she gave it all away. After buying just one fabulous, outrageously expensive item each time, frequently Armani, invariably stunning on her sleek frame.
If Maxie was going to go full-on glam, one of Sarah’s poker frocks was just what she needed.
Or, at least, it would be a good place to start.
“I never shred.” Her reply was indignant. “I tailor, I recraft, I—”
“Shred.” Sarah cut her off with a word. A word that might lead one to believe that she was still the teensiest bit pissed about an incident from Maxie’s college years.
“Aw, c’mon. You didn’t even wear that dress anymore,” Maxie said. Clarissa was trying to flag her over again, so she raised her index finger in a bid for more time. Shit. This was why she avoided entanglements. This thing with Nick was distracting her from her job when she could least afford it.
“I wasn’t ready for it to be turned into a monster! Shredded, I say.”
“But, Chinese New Year! It was so much fun. Our dragon ruled.”
“You owe me twenty-seven hundred dollars.”
Yeah, there was never a good comeback to that line. But still, the hand-painted silk had been transformed into the most glorious flaring mane behind the terrifying mask of the dragon face.
Maxie settled in for some serious begging.
“Can I have a dress please? Pretty please, big sister who I love so much and who doesn’t want me to be outclassed and embarrassed at the fancy ball I’m going to tomorrow?” It really was quite pathetic for a grown woman to whine like a five-year-old. Then she thought of the alternative. Not having a couture gown for the ball.
“I’ll love you forever and ever and will babysit all seventeen of your future children, once you have them…”
“Oh, my god, please shut up. You can have a dress. But you have to get it tomorrow. I’m going to bed now. J.D. will be here in the studio all day, so come by whenever.”
“Thank you!”
“Don’t take the midnight-blue one. Or the short red one. J.D. likes to…just, not that one. In fact, text me a picture of the one you want for pre-approval. And whatever you do, no shredding.”
Clarissa was flailing her arms in the air as if she was signaling a low-flying plane for rescue from the desert island on which she’d been stranded. Clearly Maxie’s presence was required, stat. “Okay, I’m coming!” Maxie shouted to her, pulling the phone away from her face. “Sorry. Gotta run,” she said into the receiver. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“I want to hear about this ball, too! You’re not getting out of that just because I’m tired.”
“Love you, too, big sis.”
“Bye.”
She hung up. Problem solved. She could swing by Sarah and J.D.’s loft first thing in the morning to make her selection. And she’d somehow manage to squeeze in a quick tailoring job to her massively overloaded to-do list for the morrow. Hell, if she could add enough material to a suit of medieval armor to allow for a last-minute understudy change in A Knight’s Tale, then she could turn a regular designer dress into a runway-worthy piece faster than she could say “Jennifer Lopez’s dress cut down to there.”
She was going to be fabulous.
She hoped.
Chapter Nine
Twenty-four hours later she was cursing herself for an idiot.
“Oh, my god.” She’d rapidly passed the quiet-voice-in-your-head-gently-scolding-you stage and moved on to out-and-out yelling at herself. “It would have killed you to take him up on the car? Dumbass.”
The backed-up line of cars, limos and taxis waiting to pull up to the front of the Civic Opera House and disgorge their passengers stretched on for blocks. At least half a mile. She had watched the meter in her taxi for ten minutes until she’d finally given up and abandoned the car. She might be wearing a three-thousand-dollar dress, but she had less spare cash than a teenager mowing lawns for twenty bucks a pop. Every dime she had was sitting on her desk in the form of illegal weaponry. Luxuries like lingering in taxis—hell, like cab rides, period—were so not a part of her monthly budget anymore.
So she had jumped out after paying and started walking the final two blocks.
Of course, that was easier said than done in this gown.
She was thinking about buying stock in the double-sided costume tape she’d used to plaster the bodice of the dress to her skin.
That tape was the only thing preventing innocent bystanders from being subjected to a live-action version of a Girls Gone Wild video.
She had found the dress buried in the back of Sarah’s closet, where her sister had undoubtedly shoved it after wearing it once in Vegas and realizing there was no possible way she could get away with it in Chicago.
And that was before Maxie had gotten her clever little hands on the dress.
Taking advantage of a flash of inspiration from the day before, she’d gone for the JLo Grecian-style look of slashed down to there and up to here.
The sun hadn’t quite set, and Maxie was perfectly visible to passing cars on Wacker Drive, which is how she learned that the dress made quite a dramatic impact.
Quite.
A hair-curling squeal of jammed breaks and skidding tires pealed out from a car that slammed to a halt at the curb beside her. She just kept walking. There was no possible way looking could improve the situation.
At least she hadn’t caused an accident.
That time.
The gown had been stunning in its original incarnation. Brick red at the hem, it erupted into other fiery hues until it reached her shoulder, where the twisted ropes of fabric that curved over her shoulders and draped down her back glowed with a burnt-orange sheen. Even in Sarah’s closet, the neckline had plunged relatively low.
Relative was an interesting word.
It was possible that the original dress had looked like a nun’s habit, relatively speaking. Because in its new form, she was literally stopping traffic.
She peeked over her shoulder for one moment and sighed with relief when the street was clear of any gobsmacked motorists.
Prying her phone out of a clutch equally as miniscule as the bodice of her dress, she thumbed a quick text to Nick.
Here. You?
It only took a second for his reply to pop up.
Meet you at the entrance.
>
She ducked behind one of the massive columns that lined the street side of the enormous gray limestone building. Not that there was anyplace to hide. Getting far enough around the pillar’s curve to shield herself from passing motorists just meant that she was visible to the steady stream of well-dressed elite who were also heading to the entrance. She caught more than one raised eyebrow.
You got ten seconds to buck up, babe.
She glanced down, checking again to make sure that the yard of double-sided dress tape she’d used was still doing its duty.
All clear. Tasteful side boob, yes. Flagrant nipple exposure, no. She threw her shoulders back and patted her updo with a hand. She’d pinned her hair in random twists and curls with two dozen bobby pins, each crowned with a tiny gold star barely large enough to be seen but perfect for catching and sparkling in the light.
Bring it on.
Hitting her stride as she approached the glass and brass doors of the main entrance, she was forced to slow down by the crush of people attempting to enter all at once. She spotted Nick inside the lobby, waiting to the side of the ticket-taking ushers and wearing his perfectly tailored tuxedo as if he’d been born in it.
Four-inch spike heels could be an advantage in a crowd.
She angled herself toward the usher nearest Nick, assuming he would see her by the time she reached the front of the line and hand over her ticket.
She could tell the moment he caught sight of her. A smile broke out as his eyes locked with hers, and then his gaze automatically swept her from head to toe and back again. There was nothing flirty about it, really—it was just the instinctive scan you gave an outfit when you were pretty sure it was worth the look.
His self-control was impressive.
Only a flare of his nostrils and a barely perceptible widening of the eyes gave him away.
By the time she made it to the velvet-roped entry lane, Nick’s expression was completely composed. He simply nodded to the usher, who waved her through without a ticket.
“VIP treatment, hmm?” She air-kissed his cheek.
“Of course.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and strolled off without making one comment about her dress.
Fine. She could play it like that. If he wasn’t going to say anything, neither would she.
Even if her dress was more appropriate for the red carpet at the Oscars than it was a historic Gold Coast fundraiser for the Lyric.
Their chat tumbled in desultory fashion over the topics of the day: the two-story flat that was undergoing repairs after one of Maxie’s temporary hires backed a forklift through it at the warehouse; the problems Nick was still having with the start-up he was now thinking twice about backing; the twenty-foot-long sinkhole that had opened up just south of downtown at a thankfully low traffic hour. She kept it light.
No need to bring up recent dramas. Or guns.
By the time they reached their table toward the front of the great hall with its soaring ceilings and giant pillars, Maxie was about ready to crawl out of her skin. They’d made their way through a crowd of several hundred people, most of the women wearing gowns and jewelry worth more money than she’d spend on a new truck. But black and white and navy were the colors that ruled the evening, and the cut of most of the gowns would have suited her mother. Did he seriously not think her dress was worthy of a comment?
She’d kept it within the bounds of good taste, barely, but she’d certainly expected some kind of reaction.
“Nicholas!”
Maxie told the whisper of jealousy to shut it when Nick smiled and paused to greet the stunning brunette who’d called out his name. It was the woman from Cité, Nick’s old girlfriend, but Maxie couldn’t remember her name, so she just stood there smiling like a moron until they separated from their hug and turned to her.
“Maxie, you remember meeting Elizabeth? You two met at Cité.”
“I do.” Elizabeth. Like the frigging Queen. Of course. She remembered thinking Elizabeth had seemed more genuine than most at the zombie party and hadn’t been surprised to learn that the two had dated in the past. Elizabeth was exactly the kind of woman Maxie could picture appealing to Nick. Her strapless pewter-gray gown had a subtle sheen that complemented her classic chignon and pearls. She looked exquisite and Maxie suddenly felt self-conscious about her own gown, which only minutes ago had greatly pleased her. “Nice to see you again.”
The woman’s smile seemed genuine. “God, Nick must be so happy to have someone other than me to talk to at one of these dreadfully long evenings,” she said, touching Nick’s sleeve for a moment.
Nick smiled at Elizabeth. “I thought you’d be hiding in your office until midnight, since I let you off the hook.”
“I wish.” The brunette grinned back and shook her head. “Your mother’s not the only one with an agenda. God forbid I should miss the ‘social event of the season.’” She leaned heavily on the air quotes. “She’s still in mourning because we broke up. I think she hoped to organize our wedding like she planned her last corporate takeover.”
Great. All Maxie could remember from the zombie cocktail party was that Elizabeth did something in business. “I’m sure you two have a lot in common, you know, in the business world.” God, she sounded like a moron.
Nick’s ex immediately shook her head. “I’m a glorified accountant. You put Nick and me at a table together and it’s nothing but numbers all night long until everyone else at the table has fallen asleep on their dessert plates.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “What she’s too modest to tell you is that she just made Senior VP at Deloitte.” He leaned in to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek. Again. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Elizabeth’s smile grew even wider. “Thanks! I told my mother this was her last chance to haul me out of the office before Christmas, at which point I will buy everyone something ridiculously expensive in an effort to buy their forgiveness.”
Jesus. Could she be any more charming? Maxie would have liked her so much better if she were a total shit. She stewed in her own jealously for a moment longer, until she realized that Elizabeth had changed the subject to Maxie’s gown. She braced herself for the hit that she was sure must be coming.
“—jealous of you! I’m such an old lady when I shop. But you look amazing. God, wait until Nick’s mom gets a glimpse of you.”
Even the woman’s laughter sounded musical, like silvery bells tinkling, damn it. Maxie tried to figure out if she should be offended or not as Elizabeth shared a grin with Nick, but her vibe didn’t feel mean. Hard as it was to believe that this society-princess-slash-business-powerhouse was genuine, she certainly seemed that way.
When they said goodbye and separated, she didn’t know whether she felt jealous or just…small? She didn’t doubt that she could hold her own and go toe-to-toe with anyone, anywhere, but there was something about seeing Elizabeth again…
Nick’s ex was everything that would suit him best in a woman. And reminding herself that he’d invited her and not the lovely Elizabeth didn’t ease the sting of comparing herself to such a paragon of propriety.
Maxie pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
Nothing phases you, girl. Remember that. And don’t let your boob fall out of your dress.
She could do this.
Nick walked them toward a table where a woman with a silvery-blond chin-length bob was sitting. The draped champagne chiffon of the woman’s column dress was as immaculate as her not-a-strand-out-of-place hairdo. He dropped his free hand on the woman’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“Good evening, Mother. I’d like you to meet your stage manager, Maxine Tyler.”
And that was when Maxie got her reaction.
“Good heavens, girl.” The older woman’s eyes grew big as she took in the sight of Maxie. “What on earth did you have done to that perfectly gorgeous Galliano dress?”
“Improved it,” Maxie said, tilting her head to one side.
“I
’m sure any number of gentlemen here would agree,” Nick’s mother said as she rose from her seat and turned to face them. “Right before estimating your bra size.”
“Easy, killer.” Nick shook his head and grinned. If she hadn’t been too busy laughing, Maxie might have been offended, but there was something undeniably appealing about this woman who said what most people would only think.
“No worries,” Maxie said to Nick, giving his mom a smile. “Lucky for me, this dress doesn’t allow for a bra.” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice. “It’s rather liberating.”
Nick’s mother barked a laugh and pressed her lips together.
“Maxie, this charming woman is my mother, Alphonsa Drake”
Only a decade-plus of stage experience allowed her to keep a straight face. But she must have flinched, because Nick’s mom waved one heavily bejeweled hand in the air.
“Ridiculous name, I know. Family tradition. Call me Alfie.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Alfie.”
“I’ll ask you if you still think so in an hour.”
Nick shook his head and smiled as he led Maxie to the far side of the table, where their names were engraved on pewter-gray cards perched in the stems of flowering branches centered over the salad plates. Dogwood, perhaps?
A quick round of introductions made it clear the evening was fated to be a snoozer. Two tax attorneys, a banker and his wife, Nick’s mom and an empty chair made up the rest of their party. Laissez les bon temps rouler.
Nick seemed put out by the empty chair.
“Mother,” he said, nodding to the spot at the table. He made the one word sound accusatory. Quite impressive, really. He snapped his lilac napkin—it matched the flowers on the twig—and settled it over his lap.
“What?” She grabbed a passing server by the sleeve and pulled him to a halt, gesturing to the wine glasses at her place setting.
“Red or white?”
“Just fill them all, darling. These young ones are too polite to take more than a glass, so you just pay attention to me.”
Nick wasn’t done grilling her. “How come it would be a scandal if I came without a date, and yet you’re under no such obligation?”
