The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(17)
“I don’t know about that,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t think you should beat yourself up too much. It’s probably not that uncommon.”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
She shrugs. “You’re just one of a million women who picture Sebastian Bellizzi inside them instead of their boyfriends or husbands.”
I groan. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Does it?” she asks lightly.
My lips twitch. “I hate you, I really do.”
She grins. “I know. By the way, are you seriously going to wear that?”
I look down at my Armani cocktail dress. “I look good in this,” I say hesitantly.
Vera snorts. “You look like a stuffy heiress.”
“Hey! This heiress is getting you into the most exclusive nightclub in Los Angeles.”
She’s immediately contrite. “You’re right. Sorry, sweets. I just think maybe you should loosen up a bit. Show some skin. Maybe flirt a little.”
I wave a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Robert?”
“I didn’t say sleep with someone else,” she retorts. “I like Robert. He’s swell. I even think you should keep seeing him, primarily because he treats you like a queen. But let’s be honest, you’ve been dating him for a month not five years. For the last week you’ve been acting like you’re walking the plank toward matrimony. It’s sad. And you’re giving yourself wrinkles with all that frowning.”
“Bitch,” I say halfheartedly.
She smiles smugly. “We’ve been besties for four years. I can tell when you’re not sleeping enough or drinking enough water. You’d better believe I can tell when that big brain of yours is chewing hard on something it shouldn’t be.”
I snarl, “I’m going to chew on your face if you don’t get it out of mine.”
Vera laughs and stands up. “That’s my girl. Back to fourth grade. Now go put on the dress that’s on the bed. I stole it from a shoot for you.”
As I head into the bedroom, I realize my anxiety is gone. I also can’t help but wonder what the fuck just happened.
After draping my dress carefully on the back of a chair, I shimmy, contort, and wrench myself into Vera’s sorry excuse for evening wear. I recognize the designer, but though I’ve admired some of his dresses, they’re not my usual style. I’m more of a leave something to the imagination gal, while this dress screams, My back zipper is for easy access.
Gunmetal grey, with a dull, metallic sheen, it has just enough stretch to allow me to breathe. The only reason I don’t immediately demand that Vera cut it off me is that I’m afraid she’ll slice me bloody.
“If I bend over, my ass is going to fall out.”
Vera’s grin is wicked. “Exactly. You smudged the shit out of your eyeliner. Get in here and let me fix it.”
There isn’t a damn thing wrong with my eyeliner. Vera merely wants an excuse to glob dark eyeshadow all over my lids. I let her do it, but only because she has a magic touch with makeup brushes.
When she’s done applying two more coats of mascara to my lashes, she tackles my hair. Two minutes later she sighs in defeat—it’s ramrod straight and has never held a curl longer than ten minutes.
“Why do I bother? At least it’s thick and shiny.”
“Are we done yet?” I gripe, but actually don’t mind playing dress up. Growing up with brothers, I missed out on moments like this.
Vera primps for a few more minutes, altering absolutely nothing of her physical perfection. On looks alone she could probably walk right into the club sans me. Well, sans my name.
“I look like a vampire hooker next to a Brazilian supermodel,” I grumble as I step into my stilettos, which are thankfully black and go with the alien-repellant dress. I still barely come up to Vera’s shoulder.
She winks. “If that’s the role you want, play your little heart out.”
Ignoring her, I glance at my watch. “Now can we go?”
I offer to drive but Vera insists we take a cab. And that I do two shots of Jameson before we leave. Whether it’s the burn of whiskey, giddiness from lack of oxygen, or the fact that Vera’s ADD keeps my brain flipping from topic to topic, I finally begin to loosen up.
She’s right—my head has been in a bad place for a week straight. I have been feeling trapped by Robert. Again, not his fault. I’d rather eat dirt than admit it, but my brothers are right, too. I’m afraid of commitment. The idea of getting serious about someone or—God forbid—falling in love, scares the bejeezus out of me.
Strangely, admitting it—even if only to myself—takes a weight off. More worry releases as I realize that this fact about me probably isn’t news to Robert. But for some reason, he’s sticking around. I like him sticking around. In fact, when I’m not sabotaging our relationship in my head, being with him is wonderful. He makes me feel good.
Hopeful, even.
12
When we step out of the cab, it’s instant pandemonium. At least half a dozen paparazzi are between us and the entrance of the club. Neither Vera nor I are recognized, but they snap pictures anyway on the off chance of scoring a sale. I cross my fingers that none of them end up within a mile of the internet or trashy magazines. My brothers would have conniption fits seeing me in this dress.