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He shrugs. “You’ll wear what I send you.”
I laugh. “Okay then.”
“Let me take that,” Gulliver says, sliding the bags from my grip.
Handing back the booklet with all my details to Fitzy, I easily accept the hug he gives me, then step aside so he can hug Gulliver next. “Make sure you wear the gray suit I sent you last week,” he tells Gulliver, who just nods, draping his arm across my shoulders, before he leads me back out of the building.
I’m back in the car, and we’re driving toward my house before I even process what just happened. “How do you know Fitzy?” I ask, feeling a little dazed.
“He’s my godfather,” Gulliver says with a grin. “He and my mom went to school together.”
I nod. “Did he design my dress?”
“No, he’s a stylist. He dresses my mom and a few others. He’ll send you clothes every couple of weeks from now on, then he’ll probably randomly turn up at your house at the start of each season.” He laughs.
“At my house?” I exclaim, shocked.
“Yep, you’re one of his clients now. You should be flattered. The last new client he took on was a princess.”
I stare at the side of his head, unsure if he’s being serious or not, but before I have a chance to ask, we’re pulling up outside my house, and that sinking sensation fills me again. “The dress is beautiful, and thank you for introducing me to Fitzy, but once you talk to my parents, I really don’t think it’ll be necessary for me to come tonight.”
Gulliver’s lips press together into a hard line. “You’re coming to this dinner, Izzy.”
“Why?” I ask on a gasp, shocked by the intensity that’s flickering in his stormy eyes.
“Why?” he says, his brow furrowed like my question is a surprise. “Because I want you to come,” he admits easily.
I can feel myself soften at his words, but it still doesn’t make sense. “We’re not friends, Gulliver. Why is this important?”
“Because we should be. We should be friends, Izzy. We should have known each other for years. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I don’t really understand it myself, but I don’t want you to be that ghost that no one remembers anymore. So, fuck it. Come to dinner, laugh, have fun, spend one night with me, Kip, Davis, and Thorn. Let me show you how it would have been if you hadn’t been hiding all this time.”
My heart starts to pound in my chest as I listen to him speak. He doesn’t want me to be a ghost anymore. That resonates with me so much more than I was expecting. Am I a ghost? Is that what I am, living this strange half-life without my own identity? I always just considered myself pretending, biding my time until my obligation to my family was done. But have I actually given my life up completely? Am I now a ghost, invisible, an incorporeal being that no one sees or believes in?
Cool fingertips touch my cheek, startling me out of my inner musings.
“Hey, it’s only dinner,” Gulliver says playfully.
I nod, but I must not look particularly convincing because he grabs my chin and gently strokes his fingertip along the line of my jaw, his eyes dipping to my lips before he clears his throat, drops his hand, and climbs out of the car.
The moment I’m alone, I suck in a shaky breath, exhaling seconds before he opens my door. Offering me a hand to help me out, he glances down at my bare feet and curses beneath his breath. “Don’t move,” he orders, grabbing the garment bag and the bag containing my shoes and underwear from the backseat before he leans in and lifts me from the car again.
“I could have just put the shoes on.” I laugh, holding on tightly to his neck as he walks us up the front steps to the front door where an amused-looking Mrs. Humphries is holding it open for him.
“But where’s the fun in that?” he says, stepping through the door and lowering me to the floor with a flourish.
“Izabella.”
The moment I hear my mom’s voice, the playful mood evaporates, and I take a step back from Gulliver, curling my stockinged toes and hoping she doesn’t notice my lack of footwear.
“Where the hell?” Mom stops speaking the moment she sees Gulliver, and a brittle smile replaces her angry expression. “Gulliver,” she coos, gliding over to us and leaning in to peck a kiss on his cheek. “You have some explaining to do, young man,” she says, patting his shoulder affectionately.
Gulliver smiles sweetly at my mom, then turns to me. “How long will it take you to get ready?”
I glance between him and my mom. “An hour.”
He nods, then looks back to Mom. “What time did Dad arrange dinner for?”
“Seven thirty p.m., but really, Gulliver,” she starts.
