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A week drags on. By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m grateful to have the evening off. The rest of the team will be at the Gala of the Press, and I’ll have the night to myself. Wine, room service, and maybe a date with my vibrator to try to release some of this tension.
What can I say? I’m a simple gal.
After a quick workout at the hotel gym, I take a shower and am still in my bathrobe as I reach for the phone. Time to charge way too much room service to the company credit card and treat myself to an evening of gluttony. After the week I’ve had, I think I deserve it. I need at least one evening away from the Prince, away from his gaze, away from the strength of my body’s reaction to him.
My hand has just touched the hotel phone when a knock sounds on the door.
I freeze, swiveling my head, then walk toward the sound. I turn the handle and open the door, brows arching when I see a hotel valet with two large garment bags and a small suitcase.
A bald man with thick, black-rimmed glasses stands behind him, hip cocked, staring at me with an appraising look in his eye. He purses his lips, shrugging. “Not as bad as I’d imagined.”
“Uh, excuse me—”
The valet sweeps into the room, followed by the bald man. He’s wearing a well-fitted suit jacket with dark pants and a white tee. His skin is a rich golden color, and his features are hard to pin down. He could be Middle Eastern or Black or Latino or Native American, or a mix of them all. Maybe he’s as lily-white as me with a penchant for spray tans. I can’t tell. Each eyebrow hair is perfectly groomed, his skin glows, and he looks like…money. Like he spends more than my weekly wage on facials.
Behind him, a sleek-haired blond woman and shorter, dark-skinned woman trail behind. The second woman unfolds a chair and sets it down, then props a mirror in front of it. She pats the back of the chair with her manicured hand. “Sit.”
“I think you have the wrong room.” I stare at the four of them, wide-eyed, as they ignore me. They set up lights, mirrors, chairs, and unfold their trolleys to reveal all kinds of makeup and creams and tools.
The valet retreats through the door, and the bald man unzips the garment bags on the bed. “We have the right room, honey.”
“Who are you?”
“Your fairy godmothers,” the man says without looking up. “And by the look of things, you’re in dire need.”
The short woman snorts, running a hand over her cropped hair. She jerks her head to the chair, and instead of protesting I find myself lowering onto the seat.
The other lady, the one with the facelift-inducing ponytail, unclips the latches on a silver trunk and pulls out brushes. A makeup artist.
The woman behind me is already tugging at my head, trying to detangle the mass of half-dried hair.
I wince. “Who sent you? Who are you?”
The man straightens up, arching a brow. He puts a hand on his hip and stares at me in the mirror, pinching his lips around a pen he produced from…somewhere. “My name is Nathaniel, and you can call me Nathaniel. I do not respond to Nat or Nate. I was sent to dress you for the gala, and that’s what I’ll be doing. So sit down, shut up, and let us make you pretty.”
He proclaims the words as if I should know who he is. I know there are royals and socialites here, and the name Nathaniel does ring a bell…
“Nathaniel Hawke?” My eyes widen. “The man who dresses Farcliff?”
A hint of a smile ghosts over his lips. “You saw the story in Vogue?”
“I… How…” I wince as my head is jerked back by a particularly vicious tug. The blond woman appears in front of me and starts wiping something all over my face—lotion, maybe. Or primer. A hair dryer starts, and I can’t hear anything else for a while.
A tap on my shoulder when the hair dryer turns off makes me turn around to see two gowns laid out on the bed. My eyes widen. The one on the left is midnight black with beading and sequins on it from head to toe. I run my fingers over it, a ball of emotion in my throat.
This was him. The Prince. I know it was.
Nathaniel tuts, guiding me to the second dress. “With your skin tone, this one would be much better.”
Deep burgundy, the color of my favorite lipstick. This gown is incredible. It’s velvet, but it looks light and feels like magic. It’s gathered at the waist with a sweetheart neckline, and it looks like something I’d only dream of wearing.
My heart starts to thump. “This was Silas, wasn’t it?”
If Nathaniel is surprised at my use of the Prince’s first name, he doesn’t show it. He only inclines his head. Nodding to the makeup artist and gesturing to the gown, he gives her a few instructions to complete my look. Then I’m slipped into the burgundy gown and zipped up. Finishing touches are applied to my makeup and hair, and I turn around to see Nathaniel holding a simple gold chain.
I recognize the Cochrane Jewelers box on the desk, and my chest tightens.
“I’m under strict instructions to not let you refuse this,” he says, lifting his hand and flicking his gaze to my father’s ring. “I understand that ring means something to you.”
