by Roya Carmen
I can actually feel my body drag. Completely defeated, I keep walking.
And finally, I spot it—Ann Santhers’s big blue sign. I start walking a little faster, plowing through the pain, anxious to get to my destination. I spot my reflection in the restaurant windows and I am quite a sight, hobbling like I’ve sprained an ankle. I figure Weston is probably sitting in there, waiting for me, and I decide to give him a piece of my mind as soon as I see him.
When I walk in, I am delighted—the place is the cutest, quaintest place I have ever seen—Swedish atmosphere, turquoises and reds, mosaic tiled floor. The adorable folksy illustrations covering the walls beckon me to sit down on the cozy plump red leather chairs. I scan the place, but I don’t see any sign of Weston. He must be running late.
A friendly brunette walks up to me. “Are you Mirella, by any chance?”
I perk up. I’m at the right place. “Yes. I’m supposed to meet someone…Weston Hanson.”
“He actually couldn’t make it,” she explains, seemingly apologetic. “He asked me to give you this note.”
Another note?
C’mon.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, willing myself to settle down—I feel I could dive into a tirade of expletives at this moment.
Please meet me at Anette’s Vintage Wear,
up on Clark Street, north of Belmont.
What? I can’t help but be livid. I was just up that way. Now, I have to backtrack. I can actually feel myself slouch.
“I’m sorry,” says the friendly server.
“This place looks yummy. I wish I could stay and eat.”
“Sit for a second. Rest your feet. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
I sit for a moment, cursing Weston. What is this? I’m really mad at him, but the more I sit there, staring at the adorable mural of a milkmaid dancing with a little girl, I can’t help but relax a little.
I drink a few sips of water and thank the server. I leave and wave good-bye as I set out to find this place, my energy drained.
It seems my feet get achier with every step. I’m fuming. He better have a good explanation for this unfortunate turn of events, making me run around like a headless chicken.
I just can’t take it anymore. I take off the heels and hold them by the strap, delighting in the sensation of my bare feet against the concrete. I look down, making sure there are no broken shards of glass. Thankfully, the streets are pretty clean.
When I get back to the corner of Belmont and Clark, I head north and look up at all the store signage. I need to look on both sides of the street since Weston didn’t bother to tell me which side this place is on. I strain my eyes a little since I don’t have my glasses on.
I walk past quaint stores, nestled within impressive architecturally detailed historical buildings. I walk past a spot of greenery, still keeping an eye out.
This place is nowhere in sight.
My feet are killing me.
I’m starting to wonder if it even exists. Is this Weston’s twisted idea of a horrible joke? And then, just when I think I’m just about to officially have a nervous breakdown, I finally spot the bright pink sign—Anette’s Vintage Wear. And it’s like I’ve reached an oasis in the middle of the desert. I’m hot, I’m parched, and my concrete scraped feet feel raw.
And also…I am so mad, I could strangle the next person I see.
But as soon as I walk into the cozy store, I breathe a little easier. The air is cool, and there’s a slight smell of vanilla…it’s very pleasant. The space is incredible, cramped with beautiful vintage pieces. The charming, shabby-chic Victorian décor is very welcoming. My eye is drawn to the brass antique chandelier, and I can tell it’s the real thing—not one of those horrible replicas. Soft scone light fixtures, silk hangers, and Victorian velvet chairs add to the charm. I was wrong—this isn’t an oasis, but feels rather more like heaven, my own personal version of heaven.
And then I see it.
The most breathtaking dress I have ever seen, in the middle of the room, draped on a silk hanger. It’s flowing, sheer, soft pink. I trail my fingers gently along the embroidery—the detail of it is exquisite.
“That’s a vintage nineteen thirties Jeanne Lanvin,” a cheerful voice calls out. I look up. An elderly lady with a short black bob smiles at me. I was so mesmerized by the space and the dress, I hadn’t even noticed her standing there.
“In mint condition,” she adds. I can’t peel my eyes away from it. I trail my finger down to the hand-written paper tag.
Jeanne Lanvin, 1930s
There’s no price listed. And I know I can’t afford it.
“You like it,” she says.
“I do,” I say, smiling at her, thinking she will most likely be disappointed with my next words. “But I could never afford it. Not in a million years.”
“It’s not for sale,” she says.
I laugh. “Oh…I see. It’s bait,” I venture.
She laughs a little louder.
“You should hang it in the front window. Get the customers in.”
A huge smile stretches across her face. “It’s yours.”
“What?”
“Mr. Hanson wants you to have it.”
My stomach is suddenly filled with butterflies. Weston has done this. This dress is what this whole wild goose chase was all about.
“I’m Anette, by the way,” she tells me, offering her hand.
She then leaves me to contemplate the dress. “I’ll get you a glass of water. You look thirsty.”
“Oh…thank you.”
I take the hanger in my hand and drape the dress over myself, looking at my reflection in the mirror. It looks beautiful. The color really suits me. How romantic of him, I think, sliding the delicate soft pink material between my fingers.
He’s breaking the rules again.
I hang the dress back on the old vintage coat rack.
Anette returns and hands me a cold glass of water. “I think you should try it on.”
“Here?”
“Why not?” she says with a playful smile. “I have a spacious changing room at the back.”
I smile back at her. “Why not?” I’m dying to try it on—the size looks just about right.
She takes my glass of water, clutch, and shoes and sets them behind her counter. She comes back, her walk graceful in delicate red heels, and grabs the hanger with her red-tipped, manicured fingers—this woman is all class.
I follow her down the narrow store. The space is filled with wonderful fabrics. The walls are covered with Victorian gilded mirrors, reflecting the light from the gold chandeliers over top.
The place is magical.
When we reach the changing room, she pulls the flowery curtain open for me, and I spot a velvet Victorian chair. The most fabulous shoes I have ever seen, sit on top, sparkly and perfectly matched to my dress.
“The shoes are yours too.”
Wow.
My gaze travels from the shoes to the gilded mirror. It’s massive and rests on the oak planked flooring, reflecting dark red painted walls and…
Weston.
He’s sitting at the back of the changing room, on a green velvet bench. He looks up from his iPad and smiles at my reflection in the mirror. I look over at Anette, whose red lips stretch across her face—she’s obviously in on it.
He looks delicious in a fitted tux, one leg propped up on his knee. He gives me that all too-sexy smile of his—it’s that rare mischievous one I don’t see often—he knows he’s been up to no good.
“Well, I’ll leave you to try it on.” Anette hands me the dress.
I’m careful to catch the fabric, not letting it fall to the floor.
“Take your time,” she adds with a playful smile.
I walk in slowly and pull the flowery curtain closed behind me. His gaze is fixed on me—intense and hot and playful too.
I hang the dress on the large gold hook next to the mirror. “What are you reading?”
&nb
sp; He sets his tablet on the bench and doesn’t answer me. He stands, and his lips are on mine before I can say another word. His wonderful smell fills me, and the sweet taste of his mouth makes me want to eat him up.
I realize how much I’ve missed his kiss.
His large hands cup my face as his kiss grows in intensity. I don’t want him to ever stop.
But he does.
He pulls away.
And his hands drop to my hips, making their way around my ass. “I’ve missed you so much, Mirella.” His words are soft in my ear. “You cannot imagine.”
My breath catches. He makes me feel so desired.
So adored.
“I’ve missed you too.” My words barely a whisper.
I have…so very much.
He trails kisses along my jaw. “You could have fooled me. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks.”
“I have?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” he says, trailing his hand up my back, under my blouse. “I like what you’re wearing.”
“Thanks. I had no idea what to wear. Kathryn’s e-mail was a little vague.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why did you want me to wear ridiculously high shoes? What’s up with that?” I ask, curious. “And what about the wild goose chase?”
I want answers.
He laughs. “I confess…I wanted you to suffer a little.”
I jerk away from him. “You’re telling me my bleeding feet were all part of an evil plan.”
His smile fades. “You had me running in circles, trying to find out when I would see you next. Wondering what in the heavens was going on with you. Wondering if you had a change of heart about us?”
His eyes are so soft, filled with pure emotion, with a hint of pain—I can hardly be mad at him. “I didn’t appreciate that one bit,” he explains, trailing his finger along my cheek. “I thought you deserved a good lesson.”
“Who knew you were so vengeful,” I say, my lids heavy. I could just throttle him right now but still, I want him.
“I certainly didn’t,” he whispers, his finger tracing the outline of my lips. “You drive me insane, Mirella.”
I reach for his belt. I want him…now. I’ve missed his touch, the taste of his skin, his beautiful cock.
But he pulls away.
He pushes me against the wall and reaches for the fly of my capris. He undoes it in one smooth move. His hands glide over my hips and against my legs, pulling at the fabric, dragging my pants down along with my panties. When he gets to my feet, he kisses the top of my left one.
“I’ll give you a foot massage later,” he promises, looking up at me. “You’ve earned it.”
As he pulls my pants and panties over my feet, I feel so exposed…and wild. I can’t believe we’re doing this…here.
He stands up and towers over me, pulls my face to his, and kisses me again.
We feverishly work together to undo his pants, and free him—his erection brushes against my belly. There’s a sense of great urgency, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Weston so unrestrained.
He props me up and takes me against the wall.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes as soon as he’s inside me. “I’ve missed this.”
He pushes into me over and over again. I tighten my legs around him as his hips press harder against me. He breathes hard into my ear. I moan softly, enjoying him thoroughly, my head thrown back toward the ceiling. The small room shakes, as does the gilded mirror and the small chandelier on top. And I pray it doesn’t come crashing down.
Weston’s breaths come faster and louder, he plows into me harder, and I can sense both of us reaching climax. I bury my orgasmic moans into his neck, trying not to make a sound.
But it’s obvious—we’re not fooling anyone. I’m sure Anette knows what’s going on. But she’s just sold a very expensive dress—I imagine she’ll let us get away with it.
Up against the red wall, he still holds me in his arms. My face is buried in his warm neck, my nose marvels in his woodsy scent.
The moment is perfect.
“Fuck,” Weston whispers, the word barely audible in my ear. I’m shocked. I’ve never heard the man curse before.
“What? What is it?” I ask, the words spilling out of me. “Did we break something?” I ask, looking up at the chandelier.
“No. I forgot the condom.” His voice is coarse.
“Oh,” is all I manage to say.
He buries his face in my chest. “I can’t believe I’ve been so irresponsible.”
“It’s fine, Weston,” I try to reassure him. “I’ve been on the pill. And as you know, I’m clean and I haven’t…”
“I know you’re clean. It’s just that…”
“That what?” I want to know why he’s so upset.
“I’m losing my bearings with you,” he confesses. “It seems I’m breaking all the rules.”
I can’t argue with that.
He has been.
“Well, that was a really nice quickie,” I say with a sly smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Shall I try on my dress now?”
As Weston helps me into the dress, his touch is soft and delicate. I look at our reflection in the gilded mirror—his tall frame in a tailored tux and mine in my soft flowing gown. I can’t help but feel like Cinderella.
He trails his finger along my exposed neck. “You look as exquisite as I’d imagined. It fits you like a glove.” His gaze lingers on me. “I’m glad. I was concerned it wouldn’t be quite right.”
“It’s really me. You chose wisely.”
He wraps his hands around my waist, warming my insides. “I thought something old might be appropriate. I know you love vintage…you’re an old soul.”
I smile.
I’ve always considered myself an old soul. No one has ever noticed before. No one has ever really noticed me before. For some reason I can’t seem to quite understand, Weston gets me.
And I get him.
We eat at The Signature Room at the 95th—it’s sleek and contemporary. I’m not sure what I would call the décor, but it almost feels like modern art deco to me—glowing, cubist, hanging light fixtures abound.
As we take a seat next to the window, looking down at the fantastic views of the city, it occurs to me that I never truly appreciated the beauty of Chicago before I knew Weston.
“You’re making me love this city, more and more every day,” I tell him as the server pours our wine.
“It’s a beautiful city.”
Sitting across him by the window, up high, looking down at the landscape filled with tall buildings, I get a sense of déjà-vu.
“You like to eat up high,” I point out, enjoying a sip of my wine.
He laughs. “I do. I love to see a sea of buildings beneath me.”
“Well, you are an architect. Makes sense that you would love buildings.”
“Sitting up high like this…feels amazing to me.”
“Sitting across from you like this, feels amazing to me,” I say light-heartedly.
He smiles at me—that bright charming grin. And I have to remind myself not to let myself fall.
Because I could really fall hard.
We share a nice meal. I enjoy the salmon, and Weston has the New York strip. We share the French crêpes for dessert—the most fantastic peach and blueberry crêpes I’ve ever had. Our conversation is light, mostly about the city and our work. I’ve noticed Weston often shies away from more intimate subjects, and I fully respect that—he wants to keep a certain distance between us, and I think we’re both better off for it.
Edward brings us to a secret destination. I laugh at Weston when he refuses to tell me where we’re going. It seems he’s always playing games, teasing. He likes to keep me on my toes. And I love that about him.
I stare at my fabulous sparkly shoes, which are surprisingly comfortable, as I hold Weston’s hand.
“Thank you so much for the dress. I love it.”
“I thought you’
d like it. It’s very feminine. Just like you.”
“But you shouldn’t have, Weston. You’re not supposed to offer me gifts.”
“You deserve it,” he insists, squeezing my hand. “It really isn’t a big deal, Mirella.”
I try to justify it to myself. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a dress. It’s not like he’s bought me a car.
“Did you pick it out?”
He laughs. “Well, I did have a little help from Anette. I dragged her to an auction. She was leaning toward a silky sleek dress. But I saw this one, and I knew it was you.”
I smile at the thought of him picking out my dress—it’s so erotic.
“How do you know Anette?” I ask, curious. “She…uh…knows about us?”
“She’s a dear friend of my mother’s. I’ve known her forever. She used to look after me occasionally.”
“Does she know…you and Bridget…about your lifestyle?”
“She does. She’s a very modern, liberal woman. She’s one of the few people who knows, in fact.” He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “And the little girl in the polka-dot dress,” he adds. “That’s her granddaughter.”
“She was cute,” I say. “And her mother was so elegant.”
“I think it runs in the family. Anika’s just like Anette.”
I purse my lips, curious. “You and Anika?”
“No…she’s always been like a sister.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, not sure why I even care about his past. I suppose I don’t like the idea of yet another woman in his life. I have enough with one woman to contend with.
“Do you see your mother often?” I ask, not sure if he wants to talk about his mother.
“No. She’s back in London these days,” he says without emotion. And I let it go.
I rest my eyes on him…he’s splendid in his tux. And I suddenly wish we had more privacy.
When Edward opens the car door for me, and I set my eyes on the majestic historical building with the large arched windows, I instantly recognize where we are—he’s taken me to the symphony.
“You’d said you’ve never been.”
