my arm to turn me this way and that. “You look really good, babe. That dress is on point. Did your fans choose it?”
“You’d know if you stopped by my pages more than every couple of weeks,” I teased as I swiveled my hips to show the flare of the skirt as it swept over my bare toes. Once again, my online poll had proven itself accurate. This particular maxi dress had won over three other options categorized under “Best Home Date Dress” by nearly seven thousand votes.
I pecked his cheek and unhooked my hand from his. “I’ve got to get that chicken out or we’ll be eating charcoal for dinner.” I made my way from the sofa to the kitchen. “Oh, and don’t think I forgot about your promise to take pictures for me while you were at Fashion Week.”
He chuckled and slid out his phone from his back pocket. “I managed to take a few, but I doubt they’ll meet your queenly standards. Not all of us can be top-trending influencers.”
Ethan’s hyperspeed mode usually left little time for snapping quality pictures of anything. Over the last nine months of our dating life, I’d received many a blurred selfie—Ethan in front of the Golden Gate Bridge for a triathlon, Ethan wearing his scuba gear on the coast of Fiji, Ethan jumping out of an airplane. There was never much context to his photos, other than his signature cheekbones and jewel-toned eyes, but even in the chaos of his shots, his zest for taking all that life could give him was palpable.
Ethan’s all-gas-little-brake personality had found me at the perfect time.
After so many years of playing the role of outsider in a family who strived after intangible things, someone finally understood me—believed in me, even.
Allowing the pan of chicken to cool on top of the stove, I made him up a plate of smoked gouda and dry salami from the charcuterie board, arranging several crackers around the edges, and then poured him a glass of red wine. I placed both on the table and sat next to him. He didn’t touch either offering.
Instead, he perched on the edge of my couch as if ready to sprint. “Babe, I had a meeting with Mr. Greggorio yesterday. About you.”
About me? Mr. Greggorio was Ethan’s partner at Cobalt, only he had about thirty years on Ethan in life and in running a successful marketing agency. His name always sparked a flurry of nerves. Maybe because Ethan had never once referred to him by a name other than Mr. Greggorio. Then again, perhaps wealthy, yacht-owning Italian men who agented all kinds of entertainment, talent, and business professionals didn’t have first names? “But my numbers are on the rise. I just passed the six hundred thousand mark.”
Ethan turned on the magnetism he was known for. “Oh, he knows. He’s been keeping tabs on you himself. In fact, he’s been doing a lot more than that.”
I had no response for this. None. Mr. Greggorio didn’t deal with influencer riffraff like me. He handled Cobalt’s VIP clientele only—partnering with product lines associated with sponsors and companies that ranked in the top brands and corporations worldwide. I wasn’t even certain he’d remembered me after our first meeting last year when I signed on as an influencer with them—a low-level one at that. My numbers had barely brushed the one hundred thousand mark, and my brand had been anything but focused. But Ethan had believed in my talent, in what I could do for the fashion and beauty industry as a whole, and he’d signed me on the spot.
We went on our first date just two months later. He’d flown me to dinner at the Space Needle—just under an hour flight from Spokane, Washington.
He stood now and paced my living room floor, his new flat-front chinos flexing with each step without a single winkle in sight—a fashion miracle considering his earlier state of hibernation. He stopped without warning and turned on the heel of his loafer. “He says you have the It Factor. The special quality that separates the fakes from the real thing.” His grin revealed freshly whitened teeth. “Do you have any idea how many clients Mr. Greggorio has worked with in his lifetime?”
If I was stunned before, then I was practically catatonic now. I gave the tiniest shake of my head.
“Thousands.” He laughed. “Thousands, Molly!” A wild spark ignited his gaze. “And I’m not the only one he told that to, either. He pitched you to