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Then she stands me up and points at the garment bag. “Now, the dress. Clothes off.”
I hesitate, for obvious reasons. I’m wearing the leggings and long-sleeve tee I put on in the dark at four in the morning, and underneath that is a bra that’s older than my marriage.
But Galina waits patiently. So, swallowing down my uncertainty, I pull the shirt over my head, step out of the leggings, and stand there half-naked with a stranger.
“Ah,” she hums. “I get his interest now.”
“Pardon?” I squeak.
She unzips the bag and lifts the wine-colored dress out, holding it by the shoulders. “With hips like that, you should be walking around this city with a marching band behind you.”
“Oh, uh, that’s very nice of you—”
“Nice? Not nice. Just true.” She crouches and holds the dress open at the floor. “Step in. Hold my shoulder.”
I do as she says. She works the fabric up over my legs and my hips. It goes without a fight, which is not something I’m used to.
I kinda think Ekaterina might be a witch, too.
When it’s all cinched up, Galina settles the sleeves off my shoulders and tidies up the back, then tugs things straight at my waist so all the fabric flows correctly.
“Mr. Makov chose well,” she says as she steps back to appraise me. “He knows what he has.”
“He doesn’t have anything. It’s a business thing. He’s my—” I stop, because there’s no term for it that isn’t an outright lie. “It’s complicated.”
“Mm.” She turns me by the elbow to face the mirror so I can see her handiwork. “You know he never brings anyone here? Twenty years I work for that man. Not once.”
“That’s probably a coincidence.”
“Hm.” She smooths my hair over one shoulder, steps back, and gives me a feisty little wink, like we’re sharing some inside joke. “Does that look like a ‘coincidence’ to you?”
She directs my chin toward the mirror, and I suck in a startled breath.
My shoulders are bare.
My waist curves inward.
The skirt falls around my hips instead of fighting them.
The wine color warms my skin. My hair looks soft. My eyes look bigger.
For one strange second, I see myself before I can remember all the reasons I’m supposed to dislike what I see.
Pretty.
The word almost, almost fits.
Galina walks me down the hall and stops me at the top of the staircase with a hand on my elbow. Then she lets go and goes back the way we came.
Seems kinda cruel, honestly.
Because now there are forty feet of stairs between me and the party.
I grip the railing and start my descent. With every step down, I consider a fresh new way that this evening could turn into a disaster. Every possible insult that could be flung my direction.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves? She’s built like a linebacker.
High heels? She’s lucky the stiletto doesn’t snap off.
