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Dimitri chose me.
Buoyed by that thought, I hop out of bed, pull on my robe, and make a quick stop at the bathroom sink to run my fingers through my hair. I rinse out my mouth and splash cold water on my face, determined not to look like a swamp creature if Dimitri and I cross paths.
I try to act natural as I breeze into the kitchen, but he’s not downstairs. Thinking he must have gone for a run, I putter around making toast and eggs, humming a little tune.
I’ve just poured my first steaming mug of coffee when I hear a sharp knock at the door. Puzzled, I make my way down the long hallway and peer out the side window.
A woman dressed in a fine mink coat is standing on the front porch. She looks to be in her mid-sixties, so I doubt she’s Dimitri’s secret girlfriend or anything. Beside her is what appears to be some sort of cart draped in a white plastic cover.
As I watch, the woman’s brow knits in irritation, and she leans forward to lift the giant iron knocker. The sound echoes through the whole house, and it’s a little jarring for the early hour.
I pull open the door to tell her she has the wrong address but pause with the words halfway to my lips. The woman carries herself with all the poise of a queen, and her gaze is just as regal. Demanding.
Her skin is smooth and unwrinkled despite her age, and her makeup is understated, apart from a bright-red lip. Underneath a fluffy Russian fur hat, her hair is drawn up in a neat twist that exposes a long graceful neck.
“Uh, hello?”
“Good morning,” says the woman in a thick accent that strikes me as vaguely Eastern European. “You must be Julianna.”
“I am,” I say, though my reply comes out sounding like a question. I have no idea why this woman would be looking for me, of all people.
“Excellent. Then ve can get started.”
She holds out a hand to signal me to step back, and another small man I didn’t see before pops out to wheel the cart through Dimitri’s front door.
“I’m sorry . . . you are?”
“My apologies,” says the woman with an airy smile. “My name is Natasha, Mr. Lazos’s personal stylist. He called and asked me to bring a few pieces for you to try on for zee gala.”
My eyebrows shoot up as she shoves past me, though my heart flutters at the gesture. I’d planned on swinging by the mall later this week to pick something out, so this is going to be a serious upgrade. Judging by the way the little man is grunting and pushing to wheel the cart in, Natasha brought more than a few pieces.
I follow the man with the cart into the living room and watch as he unzips the cover. A dozen or more floor-length gowns glisten like jewels in the weak morning sun — some satin, some sheer, a few hand-embroidered with little glass beads, and some plain and understated.
“Pay no attention to zee sizes,” says Natasha with a careless flick of her wrist. “Men can never guess a woman’s size correctly, and ve vill just alter whichever you choose.”
I suck in a breath as I stare at the dresses, suddenly overwhelmed. Part of me can’t believe that Dimitri went to all this trouble just so that I could have something to wear. The other part of me is nervous that I’ve underestimated what a big deal this is.
Carefully combing through the gowns, I pull out a shimmery gold number and let the intricately beaded fabric pool in my hand.
“Not zat one,” says Natasha with an impatient click of her tongue. “It vill not do your complexion justice.”
I quickly put the dress back on the rack and take a deep steadying breath. Even though it’s technically up to me what I wear, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to choose wrong.
“Try this,” says Natasha, plucking a deep-blue number off the rack and handing it to me. “Hangs beautifully.”
“Uh, okay . . .” I say, taking the dress. Natasha bends down and plucks a white box off the bottom of the rack, shoving it into my arms.
“Shoes.”
I nod and pivot toward the hallway, but Natasha stops me before I’ve gone three paces.
“Verr are you going?”
“Uh . . . the bathroom,” I say, extricating one arm from the pile of fabric to indicate the powder room.
Natasha shakes her head, and my stomach clenches. Is she going to make me strip naked in front of her?
“Go upstairs to try it on and come back down. Zee venue has stairs,” she says, splaying her palms as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You must choose a gown that moves well on stairs.”
