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Ten minutes later, it turns out she was right—at least in the sense that my friends all wearing gowns of their own does make me feel less ridiculous in my puffy-sleeved monstrosity straight out of the 1980s.
“Fun” is a loose word, though. Francia looks like she’s in as much pain as I am.
“Some of these are from the designer’s vintage collection.” Anya steps behind Francia in the mirror, admiring the frilly sleeves. “It’s right out of a fairytale.”
Francia grimaces. “Am I the evil stepsister in this fairytale?”
Before Anya can answer, Jorden steps out of the closet with both arms wide, walking with her hips pressed forward and her shoulders pressed back. “I look incredible. Now, all I need is a groom.”
Anya wolf whistles. “The trumpet silhouette is perfect for you.”
The gown is fitted through the middle and down her thighs, but flares out in a whirlwind of ruffles and lace at her knees. It balances her out nicely. She looks gorgeous.
“You really do look amazing,” I agree. “Bookmark that dress for when you finally marry your sugar daddy.”
“A sugar daddy?” Anya raises both brows. “Tell me more.”
Jorden shakes her head. “There’s nothing more to tell. Every man I meet is flirtatiously incompetent.”
“What does that even mean?” Francia pinches the tulle skirt of her dress between her fingers and drops it. No plans to say yes to that dress, apparently.
“It means they don’t know how towoome,” she sighs.
Anya nods. “A girl needs to be wooed. It’s important.”
Is that what Ivan was doing when he studied my naked body up and down before finally handing me his suit jacket to cover up? Was thatwooing?
If so… it worked.
“I thought you wanted a sugar daddy,” Francia mutters.
Francia’s inner feral cat is coming out a bit today. She’s been on edge since they arrived. Too much time locked away in the safehouse by herself, I’d imagine.
Jorden shoots a sharp look her way, but quickly schools her face into a lighthearted smile. “I’m a complex human, Francia. I want both.”
Anya plucks a short, edgy veil from the top of one of the racks and tucks it into her hair. “Based on what I saw at the club the other night, you want a certain friend of my brother’s.”
“Huh? Who?” Jorden is playing dumb, but her cheeks are pink.
I know where Anya is going with this. Even while Jorden was shoving dollar bills down another man’s pants, she was watching Yasha.
“You know who! Don’t play coy with me. You two were dancing around each other all night. Not literally,” Anya adds. “Despite my best efforts.”
“Yourbest effortswere not very subtle. Yasha probably knew you were trying to ship us. That’s why he wouldn’t talk to me all night.”
Anya waves her off. “That was not my fault. Yasha wouldn’t talk to you because he’s bad with women.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Yasha would be so mad if he heard you say that.”
“Of course he would,” Anya says. “All men would. It’s just because they can’t admit that they don’t have a single fucking clue how to talk to a woman. Even Lev didn’t know how to talk to me until at least a year into our marriage. Men need to be taught. Trained.”
“That must be why I can’t find a man worth dating,” Jorden ponders. “Because I’m looking for one that has already been trained. Or because the only men I have been in recent contact with are just there to watch my apartment.”
“You’re hitting on your guards?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
She winks. “They’re cute. And I think they could do a better job of guarding me frominsidemy apartment. It is not a crime to lure them inside with fresh-baked cookies and whiskey.”
“No, but it is a crime that none of the guards sent to watch over me have been handsome or shown any interest in me whatsoever,” Francia chimes in. She laughs, but I remember the look on her face when we were talking at the club.
