Keesha's eyes widen. "Fancy! Let's find you something to wear."
We dig through my pathetic closet—jeans, sundresses, one black pencil skirt that screams "intern trying too hard."
"This is hopeless," I mutter, but then Keesha holds up her white silk blouse.
"Pair this with your pencil skirt. You'll look chic and sophisticated. But Tara—" She catches my hand. "Cameron's crazy about you. He doesn't care about the clothes."
I know she's right, but after twenty-seven days apart, I want to remind him exactly what he's been missing.
Racing to the bathroom, I luxuriate in a warm shower. After wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I walk into the bedroom and freeze.
A gigantic box sits on my bed, wrapped in silver ribbon.
"Keesha? What is this?"
"A Saks Fifth Avenue messenger just arrived with it."
I don't have to ask who it's from. My pulse quickens as I untie the ribbons. I open the box and see the most stunning black dress I've ever seen.
When I hold it up to the light, the fabric slides through my fingers like liquid silk.Curiously, there's something structured inside the dress that makes it hold its shape.
"What's this?" I ask, examining the built-in corsetry.
"Boning," Keesha explains, running her fingers along the stays. "This way, any woman who wears this dress will instantly attain the perfect figure."
"Cameron thinks I need some artificial shaping? Is this an insult or a gift?"
I hold the dress against myself in the mirror, imagining Cameron's hands spanning my waist.
Keesha laughs. "Relax. He probably called their personal shopper and said, 'choose a dress that'll make my woman look irresistible.'"
His woman.Heat rises between my thighs at the possessive phrase.
After I style my hair and do my makeup, Keesha helps me step into the dress.
I give myself an approving glance in the mirror. I'm all dangerous curves and sultry confidence.
Keesha steps back to admire her handiwork. "You look like you should be on a magazine cover."
The dress hugs every curve, the neckline dipping just low enough. When I move, the fabric whispers against my skin, making me hyperaware of my own body.
"What time is he picking you up?"
"He's sending a limo. I'm meeting him at the restaurant."
"Have fun, Cinderella!"
A half-hour later,the limousine glides to the curb outside our Chelsea apartment building like something out of a fantasy.
As I settle into the buttery leather seat, anticipation coils tight in my belly.
It's been weeks since I've seen Cameron, just heated phone calls and text messages that left me aching for his touch.
I alight from the limo and head to the elevator that will take me to Per Se.
Once I arrive at the famous restaurant, the hostess knows my name before I speak. "Miss Thompson, Mr. Crow is waiting."
She guides me to a secluded corner table where Cameron rises the moment he sees me.
