Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,74
Gaston hot?”
“That’s not his name, and he’s French—of course he’s hot. All Frenchmen are hot. It’s in their DNA or something.”
“So, this date with Louis, how’d it come about?” he asked. “Did you track him down?”
“Louis isn’t it either, and again, it’s none of your business.”
“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But I’m curious about the sort of man you’d like.” He looked at me from beneath his surprisingly long eyelashes. “Come on, Martin. Enlighten me.”
“No. Don’t you think you should use this time to see if you can find a place to stay? I have to make some calls to my family. We can meet back here in an hour, okay? Great.”
I rose from my seat and left to go make my calls without waiting to hear his answer. Not that it stopped him from shouting after me, “So, was it Henri’s sense of humor that lured you in? I feel like you’d go for a guy who makes you laugh.”
A smile curved my lips at his relentlessness, but I ignored him. I had to get mentally prepared, as I knew tonight was going to be significant. I was good at corporate parties, because at those gatherings I was on a mission. But this—this was a fashion-industry party where I didn’t know anyone except Jean Claude, and I didn’t speak the language very well. The potential for disaster was huge, and I wanted to run possible scenarios through my head to be fully prepped.
“Oh, Martin.” Knightley poked his head into the apartment from the veranda. “A package was dropped off for you earlier. It’s on the coffee table.”
Package? That had to be the dress! Excited, I rounded the couch to find a large white box with a navy bow sitting on the low glass table. In cursive the name Absalon was scrawled across the top. There was a tiny card attached. In a man’s bold handwriting, it read, For mon chou with love.
I felt my heart do a giddy cartwheel in my chest. Jason stood in the doorway, watching me, so I kept my face expressionless. I refused to open the box in front of him on the off chance Jean Claude had sent some sexy lingerie along with the dress. Knightley was hard enough to deal with without giving him that sort of ammunition. I made a shooing gesture with my hands. He heaved a put-upon sigh and headed toward the front door.
“Spoilsport,” he said.
I ignored him, waiting for the door to shut behind him before I lifted the lid. Tucked inside blue-and-white polka-dot tissue paper was the most exquisite dress I’d ever seen. I gently lifted it out of its nest as if it were made out of moonbeams and gossamer. A sleeveless gown that was high in the front but so very low in the back, it had a thigh-high slit on the right side. It was bright white and delicately embroidered with tiny silver beads along the neckline and hem. It was the sort of gown that looked demure until the wearer moved, and then it became a sinuous, sexy sheath that made people stop and stare—at least, that was what I would do if I saw a woman in it. I didn’t even want to know what a gown like this cost. In fact, I refused to think about it, hoping it was a reject from the collection, a castoff no one wanted. Otherwise I’d get so nervous wearing it, I’d leave sweat stains.
Realizing the clock was ticking and I needed to call home, I took the gown upstairs to hang it up properly. Slipping it onto a hanger, I let my fingers run over the beads at the neckline. It was gorgeous, and I was awed. I was going to feel like Cinder-freaking-ella tonight, and I couldn’t wait.
* * *
• • • •
ANNABELLE DIDN’T ANSWER her phone. Not a big surprise, as she let everything go to voice mail when she was creating. My call to my father was even less successful. Not because no one answered his landline—yes, the man was the last person in the free world to have a landline, because ever since he’d lost power during the January blizzard of 2015, he’d refused to discuss having only a cell phone. No, unlike at Annabelle’s, someone did answer. Sheri.
“Hello?” she said.
Startled, I tried to gather my wits. I failed. “Is Glen Martin there?”
“I’m sorry—he isn’t,” she said. “May I take a message?”