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“As beautiful as you looked the other day in jeans and a T-shirt, tonight you need something a little more engagement-appropriate, and I refuse to let you wear anything that belongs to your sister,” he snarls, zooming along the downtown streets until we slow to a stop outside a nondescript-looking building.
I wait as he climbs out, then circles the car and opens my door. Leaning over me, his crisp, woody aftershave teases me as he unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms as though I weigh nothing, walking us both toward a plain black door.
He presses the intercom buzzer and waits until a voice answers.
“Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Gulliver Winslow. Is Fitzy in?”
No one replies, but the door lock clicks. Gulliver pushes it open, walking into a bright white lobby. The room is completely empty except for a set of double doors at the other end that swing open dramatically as a man emerges, smiling brightly.
“Gulliver, dear, what are you doing here?” the man announces, his lips spreading even wider when he sees me in Gulliver’s arms.
“Hey, Fitzy,” he replies. “This is Izabella, and we need a favor.”
“Well, put the poor girl down,” Fitzy demands, and Gulliver does as he says, lowering me to my feet, entwining his fingers with mine again before I have a chance to step away.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Izabella. My name is Fitzwilliam Van De Burg, but you may call me Fitzy. What’s the occasion?” Fitzy asks.
“Formal family dinner,” Gulliver answers, ignoring the annoyed glares I’m throwing at him.
“Ahhh, yes,” Fitzy says, nodding decisively. “Come, come with me,” he says, spinning around and heading back toward the double doors.
I glance over my shoulder at Gulliver, but he just smiles and nods his head, indicating I should follow. “I don’t need a dress,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
He doesn’t reply, just tips his chin in the direction Fitzy went in. Sighing, I cautiously follow Fitzy through the doors and into what I can now see is a huge changing area. He motions for me to go into the changing room and then pulls a curtain around me, blocking me from both his and Gulliver’s view.
For a moment, I stand staring at my own reflection in the wall full of mirrors in front of me, but then a garment bag is shoved through the curtain and I instinctively reach out and take it.
“Try that on. I’m confident it will be perfect, but I have something else if you don’t like it.”
Hanging the bag on a hook, I carefully unzip it and reveal a deep-gray chiffon dress. Immediately, the color calls to me, and the folds of opaque chiffon beg me to touch them. A white box and a pair of shoes are pushed beneath the curtain next, and I open the box to reveal a beautiful silver-gray underwear set and Prada pumps that match the color of the dress perfectly.
Unable to resist, I pull the dress free from the bag and sigh at the full-length lace sleeves that fall from the shaped bodice that I know will fit me perfectly. Silently, I undress, sliding on the underwear, then pulling the dress over the top. Just like I knew it would, the dress fits like it was made for me, while the color accentuates my skin and the white blonde of my hair.
It’s nothing like the dress I wore on Friday when I was pretending to be Penelope, and despite how stunning this dress is, I know it’s not something my sister would ever wear.
“I love it,” I say, gasping at the sight of myself as I slide my feet into the pumps and turn from side to side to look at my reflection.
“May I come in?” Fitzy asks.
“Yes,” I reply, unable to tear my eyes away from the mirror. This isn’t the first beautiful dress I’ve worn, but it’s been years since I had anything this gorgeous, and I find myself having to blink back tears.
“Oh yes,” Fitzy coos as he smooths his hands along my waist and over my hips.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper reverently.
“On you, yes. In the bag it’s nothing more than rags,” he replies easily.
He leaves a moment later, and I undress, carefully sliding the dress back into the bag and placing the underwear into the box before I pull my uniform back on. Once I’m dressed, I slip out of the changing room and smile widely at Fitzy. “Thank you so much. I’m still not sure I actually need a dress, but now that I’ve seen myself in this one”—I lift the garment bag into the air—“I absolutely have to have it.” Pulling my credit card from the pocket of my skirt, I look around for a credit card machine or somewhere I can pay.
“This outfit is a gift. The other things I’ve picked for you, I’ll bill you for and have them delivered in a few days’ time,” he announces, handing me a booklet for me to write my details on as he collects the shoes and underwear and slides them into a bag before handing them back to me.
“Other things?” I ask, writing down my details.
“Yes, I have a gift for clothes, and now that I’ve seen you, there are some things that you simply must own,” he says with a dismissive wave.
“I agree. You do have a gift,” I say, looking down at the bag in my hands. “But I’m afraid to admit that I rarely wear dresses.”
