The only distraction in my life, other than Roman when he makes a rare appearance, is Harper. She texts and calls me constantly. Always blabbing on about her upcoming wedding. I’ve heard about it for a year. Every detail right down to every single ingredient in her wedding cake. Yada. Yada. Yada. In one ear and out the other. She’s so annoying that I think about blocking her. Or turning my phone off during the day, but my parents need to have 24/7 access to me. I’ve told them about my new job and assured them everything’s great. God forbid something happened to one or both of them and they couldn’t reach me.
As the weeks pass by and I get busier and busier, I don’t return most of Harper’s calls or texts. So involved in my work, I’ve lost track of time, so much so that on a Friday night at seven o’clock, I get a rude awakening after conking out on my bed from exhaustion. My phone rings. And rings. And rings. Could it be demanding Roman? Or my parents?
In a fog, I fumble for my phone and glance down at the screen. It’s Harper. I press answer.
“Where on earth are you?” Her voice is sharp as a tack.
“I’m at work,” I say groggily.
“My wedding rehearsal is about to start!”
I bolt upright. Oh, shit! It’s already Memorial Day weekend. And I’m her maid of honor.
“Oh God, Harper. I totally spazzed it. I’m so, so sorry!”
“Well, you better not blow it tomorrow night. You need to be at Derek’s family estate by four o’clock for hair and makeup. And for some photo ops if there’s time. The wedding procession starts promptly at six. Don’t forget to bring your dress.”
And with that, she ends the call.
Oh, geez! My bestie may be self-centered and high maintenance, but I totally screwed up. I feel terrible. Then, an equally horrible realization hits me.
I don’t have the dress! It was destroyed in the fire with all my other possessions.
Oh God! It was custom-made! And what’s worse, I don’t own anything that would be appropriate to wear to Harper and Derek’s over-the-top black-tie extravaganza.
Every nerve in my body buzzes. Huffing out a breath, I palm my forehead. What am I going to do?
Needless to say, sleep eludes me. But the answer comes to me.
Tomorrow is Saturday.
I’m going to blow my salary and go shopping. Maybe Bergdorf’s will have something similar.
CHAPTER 17
Roman
Where the hell is she?
Just because it’s Saturday, it doesn’t mean she has the right to leave the premises without asking my permission and telling me where she’s going. My phone in my hand, I’ve tried to reach her every which way, but she hasn’t responded to my texts, voice messages, or emails.
I’m beyond furious. Bouncing off the walls. Even Madame DuBois doesn’t know where she is. Then, suddenly, I remember I can trace her with the tracker app I added to her phone and mine. Never having needed to use it before, I jab the app and study the map that pops up on my screen. She’s on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street. Bergdorf’s! What the fuck is she doing there? I’m about to dash out of my atelier and head uptown when the app shows she’s left the store. She’s heading west on Central Park South. Then I lose her. I bet she went underground to the subway. The goddamn app doesn’t work in subterranean environments. I have no clue where she’s going. For all I know, she could be on her way to a rendezvous with that Blickdick dipshit. I feel my pulse spiking, my blood pressure rising. Why does this girl do this to me? Clutching my phone and checking it every five seconds for her whereabouts, I pace my studio. Finally, a half hour later, a signal. She’s on Broadway close to Canal and walking in the direction of my residence. She doesn’t have a key, so she’s going to have to buzz the intercom. Guess who’s going to be at the front door to answer it? That’s right, yours fucking truly.
Five minutes later, the intercom buzzes. I think I’m going to play some mind games with her. Make her wait until I come to the door. She buzzes and buzzes and buzzes, and finally, I lope to the door and yank it open.
Bubbling with rage, I study her. She’s wearing that hideous Goodwill romper, but at least her riotous hair is tied back with my butterfly scarf. A massive Bergdorf’s garment bag is draped over one arm.
“Where the hell did you go?” I bark, looming over her as she stands outside still as a statue. She doesn’t seem intimidated by me, which pisses me off further.
She holds up the garment bag. “Duh, Bergdorf’s. You have eyes.”
“One,” I remind her. She cringes a little at her faux pas. My voice rises with fury. “Why the hell didn’t you ask me if you could leave the premises?”
To my utter shock, she skirts past me, crossing the threshold. “Roman, I don’t have to ask for your permission to leave. Especially on my days off, none of which I’ve ever taken for your information.” She pauses. “Plus it’s a holiday weekend and I had something important to do.”
Shopping at Bergdorf’s is not important! I’m obviously paying her way too much money.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”
“I left very early. The door to your room was closed. I thought you might be sleeping. I didn’t feel comfortable knocking or shouting out, ‘Oh, Roman, I’m going shopping!’”
“You could have left a note!”
She gives me an infuriating, coy smile. “Next time I will.”
There isn’t going to be a next time. I calm down a little.
“Why did you have to go to Bergdorf’s?”
“I had to buy a gown—”
I cut her off. “A gown of all things?”
“Yes, for my friend Harper’s wedding. She’s getting married tonight and I’m her maid of honor. The dress she bought me got destroyed in the fire.”
Anger seeps back into my blood. So she’s planning to escape again tonight. The nerve of her! “Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding?”
“It wasn’t on purpose. I honestly almost forgot about it myself. I’ve been so busy working on your new collection it was the last thing on my mind.”
Her voice sounds sincere. I believe her. “Show me what you bought.”
My eye stays on her as she carefully unzips the long black bag. A sliver of pale fabric peeks through the opening, and then she slips out the dress.
“Hold it up against you,” I order.
She does as I ask and holds up the dress. My good eye twitches. I want to vomit. It’s absolutely hideous. The color is a dingy yellow that looks terrible against her fair skin, and the simple A-line cut with its stiff peau de soie fabric is made for a middle-aged matronly dowager. Not a riveting, youthful beauty like my butterfly.
Impetuously, I yank the dress out of her hand.
“You’re not wearing that rag! You’re returning it.”
Sofi’s eyes grow wide with shock. “What!?”
“You have ears,” I mock mimic her. “You heard me!” Then, I call out to my chief of staff. On her lunch break, she scurries out of the kitchen and joins us.
“Madame DuBois, I’d like you to retrieve the Mirabella.”
Her eyes blink with surprise and her lips quiver. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Sofi is going to wear it to a wedding tonight.”
Almost instantly, second thoughts besiege me. I take a shuddering breath. In my heart of hearts, I’m not sure if I can stomach seeing her in that dress.
I eye Sofi, trying to imagine her in the extravagant gown. Though it may be a little big on her, the image of her in it both arouses and frightens me. My stomach knots into a spiky ball as my dormant cock stirs. “Madame, if it needs to be altered, please do that. I will be upstairs catching up on emails.”
Pivoting, I head to the elevator. I jab the button and the old bronze door creaks open. One of these days it’s going to give out. As it skitters closed, I can’t get the image of Sofi in the gown out of my head.
Instead of catching up on my emails, I jack off.
CHAPTER 18
Sofi
I’m standing on a platform, facing myself in a three-way mirror as Madame DuBois, who’s on her knees, pins up the hem of the black gown I’m wearing. About an inch so it doesn’t drag. Except for taking it in a tad on the sides, the voluminous one-shoulder gown fits me as if I were born to wear it. I’ve never worn anything so magnificent, so extravagant before. The rich, black taffeta cocoons and caresses me. Not used to seeing myself in black, I stare at my reflection in semi-shock and wobble. Outfitted in a pair of stilettos that look brand new, I’m unsteady on my feet. I’ve never worn heels, let alone mile-high ones.
“Stand still, my chérie,” chides Madame DuBois. “We’re almost done.”
I steel myself while she finishes hemming the gown. She stands up, adjusting the shoulder bow, which reminds me of an oversized butterfly, and joins me facing the mirror. At the sight of me, her eyes blink several rapid times as if she’s just seen a mirage. A slow smile burns on her lips.
“Mon Dieu. It is beautiful on you.”
“What’s the history of this gown?” I ask, still in awe. Of both the gown and how I look in it. With my hair piled up on my head, I look like a princess. I nervously fiddle with my lucky butterfly pendant, which hangs from my neck.
Her face grows somber, her voice soft. “Roman designed it ten years ago. A very special woman was supposed to have worn it, but she never got the chance.”
I detect sadness in her voice.
“Her body type was a lot like yours, only a little taller and fuller. You remind me so much of her in many ways.”
Before I can probe, she asks me to step off the pedestal, offering me her hand so I don’t kill myself in the ridiculously high heels. Carefully, she helps me out of the gown, slipping it onto a padded hanger as I watch, clad only in skimpy black lace panties and a matching strapless bra, one of the many sets of sexy underwear Roman bought me, and the black satin stilettos. The gown is as exquisite off me as it is on me. A true work of art.
Her perennial yellow tape measure around her, Madame DuBois expertly puffs out the gown. “Before you leave for your event, I will steam it. You will be the belle of the ball.”
An unsettling thought enters my mind. I hope Harper will be cool with the dress. It’s definitely attention getting, and she will not be happy if I steal her thunder. And truthfully, neither will I. It is, after all, her wedding. Her special day that she’s spent the entire year preparing for. It’s not my nature to be show-offy or competitive. I’ll low-key it (if that’s possible) and fingers crossed she’ll be okay with it. And fingers crossed, I won’t trip, being the spaz I am, and make a different kind of spectacle of myself.
While Madame DuBois hangs the dress up, I glimpse myself in the mirror in the sinfully sexy undergarments and unpin my hair. As it falls over my shoulders, a familiar voice calls out.
“How are we doing?”
I see him in the mirror. Oh my God, it’s Roman and I’m almost naked. I spin around, my mouth agape. The chill of the air-conditioning hits my skin, yet at the same time, I feel my cheeks heat with pure embarrassment. Goose bumps pop along my bare arms as I flush.
“Good,” I splutter, nervously tugging at my butterfly pendant as his discerning eye travels down my body, scorching every ounce of my flesh and torching my underwear. Feeling totally naked and exposed, I fold my arms across my chest, as if that will hide anything. Certainly not my trembling body or unchecked emotions. Flames lick my core and gather between my thighs. As mortification races through me, Roman’s gaze returns to my face, and he breaks into a dazzling smile. I’m speechless.
Thankfully, Madame DuBois comes to my rescue. “Monsieur Hurst, the dress looks magnifique on her. She was born to wear it.”
Another voice, as forceful as a hurricane, enters the atelier. Madame Dubois’s face darkens. Roman looks surprised.
“Roman, what the hell is going on?”
“Kendra, what are you doing here?” he replies while Madame DuBois silently stays put. “I thought you were in Dallas.”
I study her. She’s a stunning statuesque blonde, likely about Roman’s age, dressed to the nines in a belted off-white coat and cigarette pants. A monstrous black handbag and matching six-inch-high pumps complement her put-together ensemble. She struts up to us as if she was born wearing stilettos. On more careful inspection of her face, she looks like she may have had work done. Her skin is taut and shiny, her lips glossed and bee-stung.
“I got back last night and happened to be in the neighborhood at an art gallery opening,” she responds, running her long, slender manicured fingers through her lustrous shoulder-length mane. “And thought I’d stop by and say hello.” Her icy blue eyes linger seductively on Roman before shooting me a scathing look.
“Who are you?” Her tone is belligerent.
Roman introduces us. I find out she’s Roman’s business partner, Kendra Clark, but her demeanor says something else. Are they romantically involved? Or have been?
Her predatory eyes stay riveted on me; she gives me the once-over, and under her hostile gaze, I so wish I was wearing more than just a skimpy bra and panties. A cold shiver skitters down my spine as she snarls. “So, you’re Roman’s latest muse. The one he’s wasting twenty-five hundred dollars a week on when we need to make budget cuts.”
While I mull over the word “latest,” Roman steps in to defend me. “Kendra, Sofi has been a tremendous help and inspiration. She’s gotten me over my creative block, and I’ve finally resumed working on my next collection. It’s going to be breakthrough. Out of this world.”
Kendra scoffs at me. “Well, maybe the three of us can have a little dinner later and I can hear all about it.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a wedding to go to tonight.” I turn to Roman. “Roman, excuse me, but I need to get ready. Vincent will be here to pick me up in less than an hour.”
Roman’s thick brows shoot straight to his forehead. “You mean Blickdick? That twerp from the art supply store?”
I take offense to his insult, but simply nod. “He’s shooting Harper’s wedding.”
While Roman seethes, Kendra’s pouty mouth eases into a lustful smile. “Well, darling, that means it’s just you and me.”
Roman ignores her, like he’s not heard a word she’s said. His gaze stays on me, his face getting more heated by the second.
“Kendra, I can’t have dinner with you. I have plans.”
“Plans?”
Plans? I mentally echo her. Roman has plans? My brows lift. Kendra’s brows attempt to lift, but she can’t move them a hair.
Roman breathes in and out of his nose, his jaw flexing and his expression tensing. His visible eye lasers into mine.
“Sofi, you’re not going to the wedding with Blickdick. You’re going with me.”
“What!?”
“You heard me. Call him and tell him you have a ride. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”
Without asking him to elaborate, I snap, “Is that a threat?”
“No, Sofi, it’s a statement. It ends with a period.” He turns to Madame DuBois, who’s remained a silent observer throughout this unexpected, uncomfortable encounter. “Madame DuBois, please ready Sofi’s gown. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
I glimpse a serene smile on her usually solemn face. Collecting the gown, she skirts off.
Without another word, Kendra pivots on her heel. She gives me another scathing look and then drags her venomous eyes to Roman. “Be careful, Roman. You don’t want to be arrested for child molestation.” And with that, she stalks out of the studio, swinging her enormous bag without looking back.
My stomach twists. The night hasn’t yet begun, but I already want it to end.
CHAPTER 19
Roman
This was a bad idea. A really bad idea.
It’s all her fault. Sofi’s. Seeing her almost bare in that sexy underwear was enough to throw me over the edge, but then hea
ring about her date with Blickdick did me in. I’m fucked. Totally fucked.
The recluse I am, I didn’t remember how crazy the city is on a Saturday evening, and with some ridiculous convention happening in town, an influx of tourists, and every New Yorker and their mother escaping the city for the holiday weekend, I was unable to hire transportation—neither a driver, an Uber, nor a taxi. I, Roman Hurst, was forced to rent a fucking car. I haven’t driven a car in years. Make that a decade. My hand actually shook when I signed the rental agreement. I should have changed my mind and ripped it up. Big mistake.
They say some things you never forget. Like riding a bike. Tying a shoe. Or driving a car.
Yes, I haven’t forgotten how to drive, but I feel unsteady behind the wheel. And all these damn navigational things cars now have make me extra angsty. The BMW is like some futuristic space mobile. I didn’t even know how to turn on the ignition with the fricking start button. In retrospect, I should have rented a helicopter. What the fuck was I thinking? Damn Blickdick. He’s fucked with my head. Hell, if he wasn’t going to this damn wedding as Sofi’s date, I wouldn’t be here. And if driving isn’t bad enough, the thought of going to a wedding is even more nauseating. In Connecticut no less. While I’ve designed numerous wedding gowns for clients, I’ve never been to a wedding. There’s only one I wanted to attend. But that didn’t happen. At that thought, a bolt of sorrow and remorse shoots through me.
Sitting in the passenger seat dressed in one of her Goodwill finds, her hair fixed in two long braids, Sofi sketches butterflies and is totally oblivious to my inner turmoil. The torrent of emotions sweeping through me. Sorrow. Regret. Guilt. Remorse. Apprehension. I turn on the radio, hoping some music will relax me. It’s WQSR, the classical music station. It doesn’t. Brooding Beethoven’s Fifth, played by the New York Philharmonic, only heightens my unrest.
We turn onto the scenic Merritt Parkway and I grow more jittery. On the radio, a fast-paced piano selection. The Flight of the Bumblebee. My nerves buzz. In the rearview mirror, I can see the tension in my face. The crease between my brows. The lines on my forehead. Seriously, my visage looks like a construction sight. My fingers grip the wheel so tightly my hands hurt.
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