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“That was incredible,” Ford tells me honestly as I clean up and bring the dishes into the kitchen to wash them. “Thank you.”

“I’m really glad you liked it.”

“I’m not surprised—after all, you bake beautifully. But you truly have a gift for this.”

That fills me with warmth and joy. I’ve wanted to make this restaurant dream a reality because I love cooking and baking, and I want to share that love with people. There’s something special, I think, in cooking for others. It’s one of the most basic acts of human caring there is, a true expression of love.

But I’ve had doubts sometimes, especially as my dream has seemed more and more impossible—doubts that I’m actually good enough. Just because you love something doesn’t mean you’re talented enough to make a career of it.

So to hear someone like Ford, who I know doesn’t give out compliments easily and never lies to flatter people, praise my cooking? It means everything.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

The look he gives me feels casually intimate, and rather than trying to figure out what else to say, I hurry upstairs to get ready.

As I step into the bedroom, I stop, my brows furrowing. Laid out on the bed is a dress.

I frown, staring at it. For a wild second, I think I must be seeing things, but I’m definitely not. It’s beautiful. A lovely soft blue that will complement my hair perfectly, and a color I can actually see clearly. It has a wraparound bust that will accentuate my curves and a flowing, fitted skirt that will show off my figure without being too heavy or overwhelming. There’s an elegant yet soft look to it. When I pick up the fabric to feel it, I can immediately tell how high-quality it is.

I glance around as if someone is going to burst in and declare this is all a joke, that this dress isn’t for me after all, but it doesn’t happen.

There’s no price tag, and my heart speeds up as I wonder if that means whoever got this for me removed it, or if this is custom-made, no price tag ever attached in the first place. Instead, there’s a note.

Since you refuse to use the Amex, I used it on your behalf. I hope you like it.

~ Gabriel

My heart climbs into my throat. He did this for me—I don’t even know what to say. I’m incredibly touched. Now I know I’ll fit in with everyone else at the party and won’t look underdressed.

I take a quick shower, my mind racing the entire time, then towel off and slide the dress on. Holding my breath, I look at myself in the full-length mirror.

The gown fits like it was made for my body, and it makes my chest tighten to realize that Gabriel knows my measurements so perfectly. It’s elegant and lovely, while also being more daring than I’d normally wear. The dress hugs my curves, and the bodice is just low enough to show off my cleavage. Because it’s a wraparound in a V-shape, it continues that line in the back, meeting at my waist and leaving a lot of bare skin showing.

I have a nice little pendant necklace I was going to wear with my original dress, so I put that on with matching earrings, and do my hair up so the full effect of the dress can be appreciated. The dress is really the star of the show, and I want it displayed properly.

My stomach is buzzing with nerves as I head down the staircase to meet everyone else. I feel lovely in a way I’ve never experienced before, but I’m also nervous. Like the moment I appear in front of other people, they’ll show me that I’m really just a sparrow trying on peacock feathers.

But when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear several sharp intakes of breath. I look at Lydia—but she isn’t the one gasping. Who was that?

“You look wonderful!” Lydia says enthusiastically. “Do a little twirl!”

I do as I’m told. When I finish, I glance at Hayden, Ford, and Gabriel, who are all looking at me with unmistakable heat in their eyes. I can feel myself flushing, and I wonder if they were the ones who’d breathed in so sharply when I appeared. The thought sends a little flutter through my stomach.

Liam stands with his parents over by the front door. Elaine is smiling proudly, and Charles’s expression is neutral. But Liam looks like he tasted something sour, his face scrunched up a bit, although I’m not sure why.

Ford comes up to me and kisses me, his hands settling possessively on my hips. My mouth tingles from the contact.

“You look stunning,” he tells me.

I flush harder. “Are you sure it’s not too much?”

“I think it’s perfect. You look incredible. And if anyone so much as hints that anything about you is ‘too much,’ you’d better tell me. I might be rich, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to throw a punch.”

I laugh a little, but my blush doesn’t fade. I know his protective words are just for show, but it’s still nice to feel defended. And I have to admit, the idea of Ford throwing a punch on my behalf is… a very appealing image.

He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

I take it, and we head out.