"No need. I had his outfit delivered to his dressing room."
"You really are on top of everything," I mutter.
I take the dress and head toward my room. Then I pause and turn back.
"Antoine, can we talk for a minute?"
"Of course."
We settle on the sofa. Snorty abandons his toy to curl up between us.
"Thank you for listening to me earlier," I say, picking at a loose thread on the cushion.
"It was wrong of me to be so resistant. To complain about Rio."
Antoine waves a hand. "It is quite all right. And I am glad you did. It helps me understand the dynamics between you two so I can do my job."
"But it's hard to shake my anger toward him.,” I say. “Every time he flashes that arrogant smirk, I remember exactly why I haven't spoken to him in four years. And it's hard to fake a loving response to please your photographers."
As I speak the words, under all the irritation, something else simmers. Something I hate admitting even to myself.
"Then you're not channeling that anger in the right way. Use it. The camera loves emotion. Now go get changed."
In my room, I slip into the pink gown. The fabric hugs my curves like a second skin, the fitted bodice accentuating what the spa's warmth had already flushed.
The bottom of the dress swirls elegantly as I move. It makes me feel different. Powerful.Seductive.
Rio is still a jerk for shadowing this whole weekend with his rock-god attitude.
Yet his natural charm slips through every so often. Reminding me of the fantasy version of my brother's best friend I crushed on so many years ago.
I step out into the living room.
Antoine nods, looking satisfied. "Stunning. You look ready for the spotlight."
Snorty yips approvingly from the sofa, his short stub of a tail wagging.
I cast one last look in the mirror, taking a deep breath.
"It is showtime."
CHAPTER 17
MADDIE
"Maddie!"
A handsome man standing outside the elegant entrance of our hotel's La Dolce Vita restaurant calls my name. Yet it isn't until I edge closer that I realize it's Rio.
The rockstar's wearing a midnight blue jacket that makes him look chic and eccentric. Like Hugh Hefner from the swinging sixties.
A triangle of his signature black bandana peeks out from his jacket's breast pocket.
"Well, well," I quip. "Sullen rockstar this morning, shiny lounge lizard this evening. You clean up nicely."
"Fancy words for a simple guy, Schoolmarm," he says, flashing his characteristic grin. He reaches past the carrier's netting to stroke Snorty's face.
"How is the little guy doing? I bet he is ready for a big old Italian steak, aren't you, boy?"
