The Art of Stealing Kisses - Stella London Page 0,5

and trust me, you can swing a fancy new outfit. Besides, you’re an art consultant to a billionaire now. You better look the part. You know my motto: fake it ‘til you make it.”

I scoff. “You’ve never faked anything in your life. You’re too confident.”

Paige lifts her eyebrows. “Oh, I have faked plenty. That’s why I don’t do one night stands anymore.”

I laugh. “I miss you,” I say, feeling a pang. “I need more sass in my life.”

“I know,” she says. “We need a night out. Like the old days.”

I sigh, nostalgic for the times when I came home to Paige watching MTV on the couch with a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a bottle of wine, waiting to hear about my day and tell me about hers. “Rain check?”

She nods. “Rain check.”

I decide to take Paige’s advice and spend the afternoon shopping at stores whose price tags usually make me hyperventilate. I have to talk myself down from fleeing right back to H&M - if I’m going to be taken seriously as someone who belongs in this world, then I need to look the part. So I grit my teeth, steel myself (and my credit card), and do what needs to be done.

Three hours and a few hundred dollars later, I’m standing in front of my mirror, staring at the reflection of someone who doesn’t look like me. Or is this some alternate version of me: cultured, sophisticated. Dare I say glamorous? It may be the new heels. These strappy things cost enough to buy my groceries for a month, but they’re hot. And high. And I kind of love them.

My new black strapless gown is silky and sexy, and makes me feel like a movie star getting ready for the red carpet. The cost made me wince, but to my relief, it won’t bankrupt me – not anymore. St. Clair paid me a generous retainer, an advance on my first paycheck, I guess, and it’s more than I ever imagined earning all those nights I served spaghetti and meatballs downstairs. More than enough for a new dress and shoes, a cute clutch purse, and a fancy hairstyle from the blow-dry bar down the block.

Now that I look the part, I have to make sure I act it, too. I don’t want to let St. Clair down- or myself. I have the chance of a lifetime here, and I want to savor every moment of it.

I hear raised voices from the restaurant downstairs, the di Fiores in full form. Then I catch a British accent and realize St. Clair must be here. My heart flips. I give myself one last look in the mirror, remind myself again that I can do this, and then head down Giovanni’s.

I follow the commotion and find him literally surrounded by di Fiores—the owners Nona and Giovanni as well as their daughter Carmella and her husband Fred, plus Cousin Eddie, all talking to him at once at a decibel level normal ears would find nearly deafening.

“Guys,” I say, but no one hears me over Fred asking St. Clair for investment advice and Eddie showing off his biceps. “Come on, man, how much can you bench?”

“Hello!” I yell at full volume.

They all turn.

Eddie whistles, Nona claps her hands together in delight, but St. Clair’s is the only reaction I care about. His eyes widen a little, and then they take on a new smoky intensity.

I feel like the only woman in the world.

St. Clair’s still gaze gets the chatty Italian family that has welcomed me into their lives to slowly quiet down and all turn to me.

“Hi,” I say nervously.

Nona beams. “Our little Gracie, all grown up.”

I walk toward them, a little uneasy in these new heels that are higher than I’m used to. St. Clair takes my arm, steadying me with his firm but warm grip. “It was wonderful to meet you all, but we have dinner reservations.”

Giovanni steps in our way. “Dinner where? Nowhere in the city has better food than here. You stay, eat.” He claps twice and a waiter appears to set the prize table at the front of the house, Nona and Giovanni’s throne.

St. Clair looks at me, questioning. I want him all to myself, but I don’t want to be rude to the di Fiores either. And I’m curious to see how Charles will stand up to their strong personalities (and what I know is hands down the best marinara sauce this side of the city).

“Let’s stay,” I