“What?” I didn’t expect him to say something like that in a text. Not when he’s been so aloof and somewhat menacing. Well, except for my Central Park mishap. I scramble to rinse off Sheba and take him out of his bath, wrapping him in a warm towel. Wiping suds from the back of my hand, I reach an arm out. “Give me the phone. I’ll reply.”
My message to him reads, ‘Hi Mr. Knight. What’s up?’
‘It’s Jackson. And not much. Hang on. I’ll phone you.’
My ring tone goes off a minute later.
“Hi,” I answer, and Emily waves frantically for me to put it on speakerphone, so I do. “What did you have in mind for this evening?”
“There’s a formal tonight,” he rumbles in that raspy, masculine baritone that’s much deeper over the phone. “Want to go as my date?’”
I ignore the warmth spreading from my core and try to focus. “You thought of me?”
“Sure. Think of this as a way to pay me back for letting Vivian’s canine repeatedly run loose on my balcony.”
“Real smooth, Jackson. You’re serious?”
“Like getting mugged in Central Park. Or a heart attack. Take your pick.”
I begin to think about what I’ll wear, how much time I have to get ready, and whether I need to get my hair and nails done. Emily is nodding energetically, and mouthing the word ‘yes’ over and over again.
“Did your original date bail on you?” I ask.
“No. My dates don’t bail. Ever. I didn’t have one, and now I want one. You.”
Gosh, he doesn’t stray from the direct approach, ever, does he? My cheeks begin to grow warm at his statement. “Where is it again? And when?”
“Tonight for eight o’clock. Rockefeller Center.”
Emily’s mouth goes wide, and her eyes bulge out of her head because she’s working there tonight, possibly for the same event.
“This is kind of last minute,” I mutter as a fleeting objection.
“Are you up for it or not?” he grunts.
I’m itching to turn him down. It’s the smart thing to do, but I also want to get an idea of how formal this formal is. And how rich people party.
“Sure. I’d love to go.”
“Good stuff.”
“I’ll have to find something to wear back at my place, but I should have enough time to make it.”
“No. Don’t worry about that. That part’s covered. Look out for them to show up by five, and I’ll have my driver pick you up at seven thirty.”
“Who do you mean by ‘them’?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Whoever Gemma usually sends out for these things.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Looking forward to it, doll. See you there.”
Emily’s bouncing up and down beside me as though she drank from Sheba’s water bowl. “Oh my God. Your hot neighbor asked you out on a date! Is he really hot? I can’t believe he’s taking you to the same event where I’m assistant chef tonight! I’m so freaking excited for you! And they’re sending over an entire team to get you ready! This is how the other half lives. Are you excited?”
I’m used to her run-on sentences and usual rambling, so I smile and nod. “I’m curious.”
“You’ll be rubbing shoulders with the upper echelons of New York’s high society,” she croons in a fake British accent, which makes no sense at all.
“As long as I don’t have to act any different, I’ll be okay.”
“If he invited you, that means you act just fine. Damn, I won’t see them get you ready. I have to be onsite at three this afternoon to start prepping the menu items. Can you believe it’s a nine-course meal plus hors d’oeuvres? Oh, wait. What time did he invite you for?”
“Eight.”
“Okay, that means you’ll skip the sit-down dinner at the Loft. That starts at six. And they’ve reserved the rooftop garden for social drinking, and the usual schmoozing and dancing. You’ll have an amazing time. I just know it!”
She disappears and returns a few minutes later, holding a plate with sampling of the hors d’oeuvres she prepared from scratch.
“Here, try this,” she says, pressing what looks like a stuffed mushroom to my lips as I towel-dry Sheba.
Emily is excited for the both of us. I won’t deny that I’m intrigued. Mostly, I don’t know what to expect. I wrap Sheba in another warm towel and call out for Daisy. If I run out of time, I can finish up with Bailey after school tomorrow.
I have a date with a billionaire.
I’m not sure how to react to that.
Getting ready makes me feel like a show dog going to her first kennel club championship.
Not fun at all.
Two and a half hours of poking and prodding, hair pulling and scalp burning, eyebrow plucking and fake eyelash applications make Dahlia a cranky and uncomfortable girl. This is supposed to be a beauty team, not a torture relay. From know-it-all divas to overzealous huggers with no sense of personal space, they work on my hair, nails, and face while figuring out which ballroom gown goes with just the right pair of designer shoes and accessories.
I shouldn’t complain. This may turn out to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me. It’s just so painful. Someone needs to remind these ladies that I was born with a nervous system. My cuticles do hurt when they’re cut to the point of minor bleeding. My eyes will get all watery when poked at repeatedly. Don’t even get me started with the eyebrow and over-the-lip waxing. I was proud of myself for drawing the line when the hair stylist pulled out her case of about eight pairs of scissors. No one is touching my hair with shears just to make me pretty for one evening out. She’s not too happy about my resistance, and thankfully, piles my hair into a high updo instead.
The beauty squad finally finishes up with me, and hand me over to the wardrobe stylist.
Of all the professionals, I like her the most. The thirty-something-year-old blonde who just goes by the name ‘Zoe’ took five minutes to do what she called “getting a read on me,” not just for my size, which she nailed, but also my softer, simpler personality and background. We didn’t have to weed through dozens of outfits. She passes me a black dress and instructs me to step into it—to avoid a make-up smearing accident. The gown she picked out is stunning on me. It’s a black, fitted, knee-length cocktail dress with sequin embellishments, a scooping low-V back, and long sleeves. Conservative and not too revealing. Matching it up with diamond drop earrings, Christian Louboutin glitter slingback heels, and a similarly glittering clutch gives my overall look just enough elegance to be considered formal.
They all hum and haw about how beautiful everything is on me, and although I almost don’t recognize myself, I can admit that their transformation presents the most elegant version of me without completely turning me into someone else. I’m satisfied, they’re ecstatic, and hopefully, Jackson will be somewhere in the middle.
At close to seven fifteen, they pack up and leave just as Jackson’s driver phones to let me know he’s here. Dumping my keys, phone, driver license and my ATM card in the clutch, I lock up and set out, designer heels clicking on the marble floor. It’s my first real date since I moved out east from Utah.