But the dress wasn’t.
In fact, inspecting myself top-to-toe, the whole gig was wrong.
I went to my cosmetics case and back to the mirror.
A dusting of face powder. Good.
A bit of shimmery, peach cream blusher. Better.
A bit of eye shadow, filling in my brows with pencil, a thin line of eyeliner pencil softened with the tip of a brush, a swipe of mascara and a touch of shimmery, peach lip gloss.
Much, much better.
Then I moved to the wardrobe, opened it and pulled out the shoebox.
Then I pulled out the strappy sandals that cost way, way more than the dress.
I’d bought them in Paris. The straps were super thin. The heel was super high. It was also super thin. And they were bronze.
They would kick ass with this dress.
The women I’d seen in Paris, Rome and Florence, attractive, even stunning beauties and very fashionable, would not blink at wearing those sandals with that dress to breakfast.
I strapped them on and walked to the mirror.
Yes. Perfect.
Then I stood in front of the mirror, put three more coats of mascara at the very outside edges of my lashes and kapow! My eyes looked awesome.
I pulled out the ponytail holder, fluffed out my hair and stared at myself.
Yep, this was it. This said Lake Como. This said Europe. This said jet-setter.
Then I blinked.
Then tears began to fill my eyes so I blinked again, quickly turned away, grabbed my cute, little, Italian leather purse I got in Florence, my room key and I went to the dining room.
I knew very little Italian. My Italian language arsenal included pizza, grazie, ciao and capisce and I actually wasn’t really certain what capisce meant, just that gangsters in the movies said it. Even though I’d been in Italy for two weeks, I wasn’t picking much up mostly because I was too shy to try.
So I did my communication with a lot of smiling and hand gestures. Which was how I greeted and thanked the maitre d’ when he saw me, smiled and started babbling, nodding his head, snatching up a menu and throwing out his arm to show me through the dining room.
It was packed and I could see why. This hotel cost a freaking fortune but it was in an awesome location with spectacular views.
Looking around, I did the right thing with the dress and sandals. If I’d thrown on a tee and shorts with this crowd, I would be way underdressed.
I was so busy studying those around me and patting myself on the back for my wardrobe decisions at the same time trying to look cool and aloof like this was an everyday occurrence for me that I didn’t pay attention to where the maitre d’ was taking me.
Then I paid attention and nearly passed out.
Seriously. I nearly passed out.
This was because every table was taken except one that was in front of two doors opened to the elements, the view of the lake, the sun shining in and at the table in the corner next to it, his back to the wall, sat Sampson Cooper.
Sampson Cooper!
Oh.
My.
Freaking.
God!
I couldn’t sit one table over from Sampson Freaking Cooper!
What was he doing in Italy?
What was he doing sitting alone at a table in a beautiful, expensive hotel in Italy?
Where was the supermodel-esque hot chick that had to be his woman?
Perhaps she was in their room, finishing up her makeup seeing as, when I finally tore my eyes from him, I saw he didn’t have any dirty dishes on his table, only a coffee cup and cafetière half-full of coffee. Perhaps he was tired of waiting for her, he needed caffeine, he was a man on the go and didn’t wait around for chicks, even hot ones that looked like supermodels, so off he went telling her to meet him downstairs.
Yes, that made sense. That had to be it.
While we approached and I tried not to hyperventilate, my eyes went from his cafetière to his face to see he was still looking out his set of opened doors, in profile, his strong jaw stronger in real life than in pictures or on TV, his high cheekbones higher and more defined, his straight nose straighter and more attractive, his thick, black hair clipped short to his head had a healthy sheen to it that was healthier in real life and the appealing dark tone to his skin he got from being half white, a quarter black and a quarter Hispanic was far more appealing in person.
Oh man, I was not going to be able to do this.
Sure, I had about ten thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two fantastical, intense and long-running fantasies about this guy, how we would meet, he would fall in love with me instantly and sweep me away from the hell that was my life and make me blissfully happy forever but now, faced with the possibility of sharing his airspace, I wanted not one thing to do with him.
The maitre d’ stopped and said something in Italian to me and when I stopped and turned dazedly to him, it hit me.
I knew how I would handle this.
Sampson Cooper didn’t exist.