My bathroom looks like Sephora exploded.
Foundation bottles open, brushes everywhere, bobby pins stuck to the counter like metallic confetti. My curling iron is heating, and I stand in the middle of it all, wearing Spanx, a robe, and anxiety.
My phone buzzes on the sink; Dannie is calling on FaceTime.
I sigh, tap the screen, and she appears instantly with a cocktail in hand.
“Okay.” She points at me with the straw. “Explain the mental breakdown in your voice messages. Slow. Detailed. Start with: ‘Hi Dannie, I’m going to my FIRST. EVER. RED CARPET. EVENT.’”
“Hi Dannie, I’m going to my first ever red carpet event.” I grin and prop my phone up on the sink.
“This is insane, Jess.”
“They’re sending me a car, Dannie. With a driver.”
“You’re officially famous-adjacent. Don’t forget us peasants when you start wearing sunglasses indoors.”
Laughter bursts out of me despite the stress coiling in my stomach.
“I’ve never done anything like this. And I’m about to see him again, and…”
I cut myself off before I say it.
Dannie raises an eyebrow.
Tinnie had come up to me during the post-game chaos and told me I’ll be accompanying the captain to a formal red carpet event for some sportswear launch tonight.
“I’m freaking out. What if I trip? What if I take a weird photo and end up on a meme page? What if he looks at me and regrets everything? He hasn’t even responded to my conditions.”
Dannie rolls her eyes.
“Do we need to have that conversation again? You need to breathe. Stop pacing. And do your eyeliner before the car arrives. Now show me the dress you’re wearing.”
“It’s simple,” I start, even though it’s not. I spent a whole month making it. It’s been sitting unused for over five. “Kind of.”
My dress is a deep mulberry-black, cut in a column silhouette. The top is where I let myself show off. The bodice curves up into a structured one-shoulder mesh detail that wraps around my collarbone like a sculpted wave.
“Oh my God, that slit,” Dannie squeals.
I look down at it. It’s subtle, but high enough to show a flash of leg when I walk.
“It’s just a little one,” I say weakly.
“It’s thigh-high, babe.”
“It’s tastefully high.” I bite my lip.
“You’re going to ruin that man, Jessica.”
The building’s front lights blur against the shiny black hood of the car waiting at the curb. A driver stands beside the back door, waiting for me. Which is insane, because I sew dresses in my living room and I use coupons. And now I’m being escorted into a carto attend a red carpet event with the captain of the reigning NHL team.
“Ms. Brooks.” The driver opens the door.
“Good evening,” I offer.
I swallow, gather the skirt of my dress, and slide inside.
The moment my ass hits the leather seat, I freeze.
