But the black satin bustier, tucked into the garment bag’s side pocket, was delicately whaleboned all the way from under my bustline to over my hips, and included matching panties.
It wasn’t like my grandma’s at all.
It was . . . kinda sexy, in a black-lingerie way, but not trashy.
Maybe Clementine was trying to do Nicolai a solid.
Just sayin’.
I wiggled and hooked my way into the lingerie and then the dress, still surprised at how much better expensive clothes looked on my lumpy torso than my usual Johnson Construction company-logo shirts and cheap wrinkly chinos.
The dress had been retrofitted with spaghetti straps that tied at my shoulders, an easy way to tailor the dress to my exact shoulder height, I supposed.
I tied the spaghetti-strap ribbons into pretty little bows.
The garment bag even produced matching strappy sandals in my correct size.
That luggage piece was like a magic chest that produced whatever I needed.
LOL, a magic garment bag.That would be awesome.
The thick-fabric garment bag had nothing else in its pockets except the ironclad underwear, the custom designer dress, and the shoes.
No jewelry. No purse.
I was aware that I needed those.
So it wasn’t magic. Too bad.
Luckily, I still had the big hoop earrings I’d been wearing for my wedding and busking, so I poked those through my lobes. They were silver-plated, so they would be fine.
The purse was more of a problem.
The fake pleather on my saddle-stitched everyday handbag was flaking from use, the underlying threads showing through.
My frayed backpack was just totally wrong in every single way.
My reception bag, a white-beaded satchel with a wrist strap for the checks and cash that people were supposed to have given me at my wedding reception, just happened to be in my gym bag, thank all the heavens and the stars.
I dumped my phone and wallet into the silly little white bucket bag.
Good enough.
At least my wedding mani-pedi still looked decent. At any other time in my life, if a prince had swept me off my feet, my hands and toes would’ve looked so rough that there would be no way I could pass at a high-society party.
Or a ball.
But this wasn’t a ball.
Was it?
When I came out of the bathroom, tugging the dress’sminutely tailored seams over my boobs and hips, Nicolai looked up from where one of the housekeeping staff ladies was inserting his cufflinks for him.
His gaze scanning down my body didn’t feel like Clementine’s laser beam taking measurements, but a caress, and his slow blink before he met my eyes looked too much like desire.
He cleared his throat before muttering, “You look amazing.”
CHAPTER 6
