The show was finally about to start, and I was beyond grateful because it meant that in thirty minutes I:
A) could give up the pretense of small talk and schmoozing.
B) had time for one more drink.
C) could go home and forget about Ally and that goddamn red dress.
Lying to myself was my new favorite hobby.
Of course she’d look like that in fucking couture. Half angel, half devil in siren red. But I’d still be compelled to watch her from across the room if she’d showed up in sweatpants and an I Heart NYC sweatshirt.
I was drawn to her. Inexplicably. Unfairly. Stupidly.
And I had to do something to get her out of my head. It was unhealthy. This week I’d actually looked up the dance studio schedule where she taught and thought about having Nelson cruise by after her class. Then I thought about how stalkers probably felt about their victims, and I had him take me to a bar instead.
I was drinking too much tonight, but I could blame that on my mother. Apparently, Drunk Me was nicer than Sober Me. My mother always encouraged me to have a few drinks before social events so I wouldn’t scare away advertisers.
If I had too much—breaking news: hell yeah, I had too much—I’d Uber home, leave my car for an intern to pick up.
I ditched my empty glass on the bar and waited. The bartender in a gold lamé vest shot me a knowing look. “Rough night?” he asked, pouring me another.
“You speak the truth,” I said. Dammit, the niceness was kicking in already. I picked up the fresh drink and turned to scan the ballroom. Where was she?
I didn’t see a goddess in red. She’d camped out in front of the kitchen to snag more appetizers, which immediately made me worry that she wasn’t using her new paycheck to buy actual food. I spent a lot of time worrying and wondering about her.
What she ate on the weekends.
What she did late at night when she couldn’t sleep.
If she thought about me half as much as I thought about her.
I hadn’t seen her since I’d worked up the nerve to go over and strike up a conversation with the women she’d been talking to. It was reasonable that I could ask the ad rep about the new online ad sizes we’d be rolling out. And I could have looked at Ally. Maybe even smiled?
But she’d disappeared. Whisked away by that goddamn designer who should have been more worried about the success of his line than one woman in a dress.
Even if it was Ally. Especially if it was Ally.
This cold, professional thing with her was killing me. I missed her sitting on my desk and fighting with me. I missed the sparks that ignited when we argued. I missed her.
The lights began to dim in the room. A buzz of excitement rose as people moved to take their seats next to the runway on white linen-covered chairs.
I still didn’t see Ally, and I was beyond the point of trying to hide the fact that I was looking for her. I stopped Irvin on his way to the front row. “Have you seen Ally?” I asked.
“Who?”
“My assistant,” I said dryly. I lived in a world where everyone should know her.
“I think I saw her in a little United Nations circle.” He chuckled.
Another comment that rubbed me the wrong way. I was going to revisit the topic of Irvin with my mother and soon. “I meant recently.”
“In that dress? If she’s smart, probably off enjoying a tryst in a dark corner.”
I suddenly wanted to throw up the three or four scotches that were hitting my empty gut like a stomach bug. And then punch someone. Or maybe vice versa. My plan was a little muddled.
“Dominic!” My mother waved us both over, and we took our seats in the front row.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I had been better. “Great,” I muttered.
“You smell like a distillery,” she whispered.
“You smell really nice,” I said sullenly.
Her lips curved in amusement. “Thank you.”
At least my mom thought I was being a dutiful employee and not an obsessive, creepy stalker.
I didn’t think she could afford to have both men in her immediate family disappoint her.
The show began, and I maintained a modicum of interest while carefully searching the faces of the audience on the other side of the elevated runway. No red dress. No Ally.
The thing about fashion shows is it’s a lot of buildup, a lot of invested time, money, and energy for a few minutes of payoff. The models made their way past me one by one. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes. And not a damn one of them held a candle to my missing-in-action personal assistant.
Finally, the lights came up, and that’s when I found her.
On the arm of Christian “About to Be a Dead Man” James.
They strolled down the runway arm-in-arm, laughing at an inside joke that they shouldn’t have. There was a stir around me. I don’t know if it was the dress, the designer, or the girl. My girl.
He pirouetted her like a fucking ballerina at the end of the aisle to the delighted applause of the crowd.
My mother elbowed me. “Start clapping, you clod,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
I clapped with a decisive lack of enthusiasm, imagining smashing Christian’s face between my palms. They were coming back now, still laughing, the crowd still applauding. Trailed by the rest of the models that I didn’t even see now. Because my attention was focused entirely on the small, white pearlescent heart sewn onto the dress’s bodice.
Right over Ally’s breast.
It was cracked down the middle.
Just like Christian’s face would be if he’d sewn it on her personally.
