The dress is impossible to miss.
It's hanging in the center, covered in protective plastic, and even through the covering I can tell it's expensive. Designer. The kind of thing I'd never touch in a store because just looking at it costs money.
I pull off the plastic and stare open mouthed.
It's emerald green—deep, rich. The bodice is structured, almost corset-like, with a sweetheart neckline that plunges lower than anything I've ever worn. The skirt flows in layers of silk that catch the light, and there's a slit up one side that looks like it goes dangerously high.
It's beautiful.
It's also completely inappropriate for a schoolteacher from Queens.
"Put it on."
I spin around. Dante's standing in my doorway, shoulder against the frame, watching me.
"I didn't say you could come in."
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
"Semantics." He straightens. "Put it on. I want to see it."
"I can tell you if it fits?—"
"I need to see it. On you. Now."
The command in his voice makes my jaw clench. But arguing seems pointless when he's clearly not going to leave until he gets what he wants.
"Turn around."
"No."
"Dante—"
"You have thirty seconds to start changing or I'll assume you need help with the zipper."
My face burns. "You're impossible."
"Twenty-five seconds."
I grab the dress and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Mature," he calls through the door.
I don't dignify that with a response.
Getting into the dress takes longer than it should because my hands are shaking—from anger, I tell myself, definitely from anger—and the zipper is positioned in that impossible spot between the shoulder blades that requires contortionist skills.
I manage to get it halfway up before admitting defeat.
"I need help with the zipper," I call out, hating every word.
Silence. So much silence that I almost think he left.
Then.
"Open the door."
