“It is? Huh.”
On my favorite white chair, there’s a box.
“Oh my God. Shoes. Louboutins.”
“Emma helped with the shopping. But I picked out the dress.”
I walk to the mirror, still clasping the gown to myself. I’m surprised to see that the red color doesn’t clash with my hair, which can sometimes be a problem. Against my pale skin, the vibrant red makes me glow, causing my freckles to stand out in relief.
I turn back to Ronan. He looks so proud. He reminds me of Belle when she presents me with a picture she’s drawn.
I’m still not used to accepting things from others, especially not something like this, but if I don’t accept the dress gracefully, I’ll ruin this moment. Plus, I really love it.
I have to force myself not to read too much into his generosity, though. He’s kind and thoughtful. He wants to do something nice for me. And he’s rich as hell, so the expense isn’t a factor. For him, this is probably the equivalent of a guy giving a girl flowers.
But his sweet gesture still blows every other gift out of the water. Except his gift of the art studio. Darn him. He’s ruined me for anyone else, ever.
“I love it,” I say finally, my eyes wet with unshed tears, which I blink back.
He nods, looking embarrassed now. “I better get ready as well. But I have one more thing for you to wear.”
He hands me another small shopping bag. I peek in it and laugh.
It’s underwear. Red and just for me.
As Belle reminded me before, I teach all my kids to say thank you. So I smile and walk toward him, then lean up on tiptoes, brushing a kiss against his jaw. “Thank you,” I whisper, the dress crushed between us.
When I step back down, I notice he’s blushing.
I made Ronan blush. Ronan bought me a dress. And, even more incredibly, Ronan’s mouth was on my pussy and he gave me an orgasm.
I guess a dress and a new pair of red-soled shoes pale in significance compared to that.
I’m ready exactly an hour later and walk down the stairs.
He’s at the bottom, waiting. He’s been pacing, but when he sees me, he freezes.
I stare right back. I was right.
He looks like aGQmodel, only hotter, in a deceptively simple but perfectly tailored black suit. I’m sure it’s designer. Maybe there’s a Dior theme to the night.
The silence lengthens. He still doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. I force myself not to fidget nervously.
Finally, he clears his throat. “You’re perfect,” he says.
“Well, I’m not. But the dress is.” I twirl again. I can’t help it. The dress is made for twirling. And so is the cape. The shoes, I’m not so sure about. They fit perfectly, but I’m no pro at walking in stilettos.
He gives me a ghost of a smile. “Do you miss the bachelorette party dress?”
I laugh. “Is that why you bought me this? You worried I’d wear it tonight?”
“I couldn’t take the chance.”
“Should we call Belle before we leave?” I ask.
When he first saw me in the dress, the look he gave me was hot and admiring.
But this look, this slow smile unfurling on his mouth that reaches his eyes, is even better. It’s softer. Warmer. Admiring in a deeper way.
