“It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly, though the intensity of her reaction suggests otherwise. “He mentioned his brother was having an event and asked if I wanted to go.”
“Not a big deal?” Demi practically shrieks, dropping into her chair. “Minji Lee, this is huge! A romantic date to a glamorous event? This is like chapter twelve ofForbidden Desirescoming to life!”
“It’s not a date,” I insist, jabbing my mac and cheese with unnecessary force. “And I haven’t even said I’ll go.”
Demi narrows her eyes, studying me with alarming perception. “But you want to. Come on don’t tell me you haven’t thought about seeing if there’s something between you two. Like, what if he is college Aaron? Like I said this just might be fate…”
“It would be completely inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” Demi laughs, scooping a mountain of mac and cheese onto her plate. “If he is college Aaron then boundaries are no longer a thing—I mean, it is a thing but like for argument's sake, it’s not.”
“He’s a client,” I remind her, though Aaron isn’t exactly a client in the traditional sense.
“He’s a writer researching a book,” Demi counters, pointing her fork at me. “And anyway, like you said, he’ll be gone in a few weeks. What’s the harm in exploring a connection?”
I take a bite of the fried chicken to avoid answering immediately. The crispy skin gives way to perfectly juicy meat, and I close my eyes for a moment, savoring it.
“So,” Demi continues, undeterred by my silence, “this means we’ll be at the same event. Me creating the botanical installations, you on the arm of a best-selling romance author. It’s poetic.”
“I’m not going to be on anyone’s arm.”
“Fine, standing independently near a best-selling romance author.” She grins. “Either way, you need something to wear that isn’t from your lawyer’s capsule wardrobe.”
I think about Aaron’s comment about beige and gray and feel a flicker of annoyance. “My wardrobe is perfectly adequate.”
“For court? Yes. For a splashy comic book launch at The Beaufort? No.”
“I have no idea what to wear to a comic book launch,” I confess, feeling as if I’m giving in.
Demi’s face splits into a triumphant grin. “Well tonight is your lucky night. I have a few things in my closet that you would look killer in. You will be the baddest baddie there.”
“Baddest baddie?” I nearly choke on my wine. Me and baddie in the same sentence is laughable. Demi has been trying to get me to ‘upgrade’ my style for years, insisting that my professional wardrobe doesn’t do justice to my figure. Yet, she thinks cargo pants and Crocs are acceptable attire for everyday wear, which says more about her fashion sense than mine.
Demi waves her hand dismissively. “Because that’s what you are. Now eat your food and then we’ll play dress-up.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no stopping Demi once she’s set on something. After dinner, she drags me to her walk-in closet, which resembles a small boutique more than storage space. Clothes in every color imaginable hang from industrial racks, and shoes line the back wall in a display that would make any department store envious.
“I’ve been waiting years for this moment.” Demi rifles through hangers like the speed of light.
“I haven’t agreed to go yet,” I remind her, though the protest sounds weak even to my ears.
“But you will.” She pulls out a deep burgundy dress with a neckline that makes me shake my head immediately. “Come on, this would look amazing on you!”
“I’m not trying to give Aaron a heart attack.”
Demi’s eyes light up. “So, you do care what he thinks?”
“I care about maintaining professional boundaries,” I counter, but the heat rising to my cheeks betrays me.
“Babes, that ship has sailed. But I’ll let you think what you want. So it’s a no to this dress?” She tosses the dress aside and continues her search. “Aha!” Demi’s triumphant shout pulls my focus back to the closet. She steps out holding a pink dress. “This is it. This is absolutely perfect.”
The dress is simple yet too much. I’m sure my breasts will be on display with the style of the front, and it has a silky silhouette that would probably fall just above the knee. The color isn’t just pink—it’s a luminous shade somewhere between rose quartz and cherry blossom that makes even my neutral-loving heart skip a beat. It’s feminine without being too girly, elegant without being stuffy.
“I can’t wear that,” I say automatically, though my fingers reach out to touch the fabric.
“Why not?” Demi challenges, holding it against me. “It’s sophisticated, it’s unexpected, and it’s definitely not beige or gray.”
I startle. “How did you?—”
