My annoyance with her is still there, but I can’t deny that I’m smiling at the gesture. I have no living family. No siblings that I know of. No one to celebrate the small and big moments.
No one but her, and I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for too much at the moment.
In the light of day and after a few hours of solid sleep, I’m beginning to see the gesture for what it is: my friend is celebrating something that I’ve always ignored in my own loneliness.
“I’m a jerk.” The guilt is hitting me now, too. Her pushiness and no-boundary personality isn’t coming from a malicious place, and I need to remember this. Be thankful for it. “Wonder what she got me...”
My legs carry me over to the bag and I pry off the bow with care, wanting to keep it. It’s pretty, delicate, and the all-black tone shimmers in the soft-white lighting.
Then, I pry apart the tape and pull out what feels like clothes wrapped in tissue paper the same colors as the bag. They’re thin and very lightweight. Feels like something I’d normally never wear, but I find myself wanting to today.
It feels right. This garment makes me giggle, and I’ve yet to see it. Since when do I giggle?
Tearing the tissue off, I gasp at the pretty little number in my hands. It’s blood-red, leaning a bit more toward a wine color, and in lace with spaghetti straps—a slip dress, and will easily fall to mid-thigh. This type of attire is so far removed from my day-to-day look—almost scarily so—yet I’m nodding as I finger the bottom edge detail where the material is cut to follow the pattern and not a straight line around.
This gives it dimension. Makes it stand out as flirty and fun.
Moreover, I find myself not finding a reason to chuck it toward the back of my closet. I want to put it on.
And as I place it atop my bed and walk toward the bathroom, I envision a finished, put-together look. See a different side of me that I’ve never embraced before. The words also slip through my consciousness without a second thought or hint of fear.
I’m going to be a pretty girl in the crowd.
I take an Uber to the Tilikum Café, not wanting to walk or drive after cleaning my cuts, which were smaller than I originally thought. There was no real damage somehow, and after placing a bandage on the larger one and sweeping up the broken shards, I fed Mr. Pickles and walked out the door. I’m not far from the cafe, but I sit back just the same and take in the scenery around Prospect Street near the Facebook building and acknowledge just how much my life has changed in the last two years.
This area is quaint; it’s a beautiful little bite of Seattle that’s close enough to the downtown area that I don’t miss the hustle and bustle of city life as the water sits nearby and seeing the Space Needle is nothing but a short walk to Volunteer Park. I’m a car ride away from bars, shopping, and killer food—a vast difference from the way I grew up being a ward of the state.
Thank you, Uncle Moore, for leaving me your house and enough money to pursue my dreams.
Never met the man, but I’m grateful for his generous donation. He could’ve given it away and ignored me as he did all his life, but the gift is appreciated nonetheless.
I couldn’t afford to live here or chase the artist dream without it.
“We’re here, Miss,” the driver says suddenly, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
Am I? Right now, I feel like I am.
“Sorry.” Meeting his eyes through the rearview mirror, I give him a sheepish grin. “Just got lost in my thoughts for a minute.”
“No worries.”
“Thank you.” The phone in my hand vibrates then with the total and tip option on the screen; I accept after rounding out the fare to twenty from a twelve-dollar flat rate, and open the door. “Have a good day.”
“You’re welcome, and have a pleasant day yourself, Miss.”
“I will, after I have some coffee.” His chuckle greets my ears before the door closes and he drives off, causing me to smile. Ever since opening that birthday gift, I’ve felt lighter than I have since the first night I dreamt of that room. Don’t think of that. Enjoy the day and no weirdness.
A light summer breeze greets me, pulls me closer to the building while it swirls around me, flirting with the lace edge of my dress as it sways across my thighs. Each step toward the door brings a nervousness I’m not accustomed to. I feel as though something important is inside, and it has to be the art gallery offering me a show.
It’s not my first anonymous show and won’t be my last, but this particular building appeals to me with its three large showrooms and floor-to-ceiling windows with exposed beams. The place is industrial-meets-gothic chic and has a cult following of celebrity clientele that could give me the boost I need to expand to other cities.
Maybe I should officially hire Elise as my manager? The thought disappears just as soon as it comes as a hand shoots out and grips the door handle in front of me. This hand belongs to a man, a well-dressed one with a Piguet watch on his wrist and the decadent scent of cedarwood with a hint of citrus emanating from his larger frame.
He overshadows me. His fingers skim my knuckles right before I look back, and a gasp escapes my lips.
This man is the walking embodiment of trouble.
4
Gabriella
“Ladies first, Miss....” His voice is close to my ear seconds after I turn to face the door. But more importantly, I’m trying to avoid making a fool out of myself after the surprised noise that escaped at the mere sight of him.
Tall, dark, and handsome on a level I’ve never encountered before with jet black hair and amber eyes. There’s also something about how he towers over me, making me feel dainty when my five-foot-one frame has never been so on display. This man, who has a warm smile and who’s wearing a tailored suit—whose skin grazed mine for a second and left tiny sparks behind—easily stands a foot over my head while watching me with interest.
I feel those eyes boring into the back of my head.
I also don’t miss the fishing for my name, but I’m lost in concentration on an on-purpose basis. It’s a chosen distraction—the need to take a moment and compose myself—yet I’m spellbound by his hand.
On his knuckles, to be precise.
On the tight grip he has on the handle.
How they’re white from exertion, and I’m piqued by the elegance in his hold. They look strong, yet his skin isn’t rough like someone who works with his hands. However, there’s this aura of dominant power that prickles my flesh from the sight.
From his nearness. From a scent that feels familiar for some reason.
His hand flexes, a gentle open and close as he exhales roughly behind me. The warm breath caresses the shell of my ear, and curiosity is a dangerous thing, because for a brief second, I close my eyes and imagine a single finger running down the volume of my neck, pausing near the neckline of my dress.
“Oh!” Another embarrassing sound as a warm hand grips my elbow, and a shiver rushes down my spine. This reaction isn’t subtle as every single cell in my body thrums to life and my breathing accelerates. My nipples throb and stiffen, pushing against the thin fabric keeping me from a public indecency charge. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’m sorry, did you say something?”