Over the next week, I run around like a lunatic getting everything ready for the exhibition, racing all over town to pick up last minute items, and double and triple-checking everything. I’ve only been sleeping three or four hours a night, tops, and by the time the gala approaches, I’m teetering on the brink of exhaustion, walking around like a caffeine-fueled zombie—a cute, caffeine-fueled zombie with a superb sense of style, I might add, but a zombie nonetheless.
And now it’s finally opening night. I can’t believe it’s here already, but in a way it also seems like I’ve been waiting forever for it to arrive. The gallery space is amazing, and I can’t stop the waves of nervous excitement flooding my body as I walk the floor for a hundredth time. The gala event will be held in the Great Hall, but guests will also be free to wander the exhibit here.
“What are you still doing here?” Skye finds me repositioning the information cards again. Morgan roped her into overseeing the gala setup and catering arrangements. “I told you, it’s perfect. Don’t screw it up now!”
“Okay, okay!” I say, still scanning the space. “But what if we’re forgetting something?”
“We’re not. You’ve done an amazing job!” Skye insists. “Just look at this place!”
I stop looking for flaws for a minute and just take it all in—the vintage gowns, the glittering deco jewelry in glass cases, the original print of Casablanca playing on a loop, projected against the back wall. But this is about more than just vintage movie posters and props: there are viewing booths with social history footage from the era, giving context to the on-screen gems, behind-the-scenes interviews and footage, too.
It’s everything I hoped, and more.
“Now go home!” Skye orders. “Unless you’re planning on wowing our guests in jeans and a blazer.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly, heading for the exit. “But call me if you need anything?”
“We won’t.” Skye says firmly. “You go and get ready.” She shoos me away with her French-manicured hand like I’m some sort of pesky insect. “I’ve got this.”
When I get home, there’s a giant white box leaning against my apartment door, tied with a huge red bow. I bring it inside, and when I tear off the wrapping and wade through what feels like miles of carefully-folded tissue paper, I find a card on thick, embossed paper that reads:
Compliments of Jake Weston.
Pick you up at eight.
My heart can’t help skipping. Underneath all that tissue paper, I find a gorgeous red satin vintage Valentino gown—with matching red stiletto sandals and an intricately beaded evening bag.
Be still, my heart!
I move to the mirror, holding the heavy, slick material of the dress up against my body. Holy shit, it looks exactly my size—almost as if it was made for me and me alone.
I lay the dress back on the bed carefully, reverently, and make my way to the shower, buzzing with excitement now.
What does this mean? Is he back from his disappearing act? And is pulling a Pretty Woman supposed to make up for the bounty, and not telling me?
Yes.
I try to get my nerves under control. Get it together! It’s going to take more than vintage haute couture to woo me, but when I hear a knock at the door an hour later, it feels like there’s a whole meadow full of butterflies taking up residence in my stomach. I take one last look in the mirror, then go open the door.
Fuck me now.
Jake stands on my doorstep in a tux, and he looks so far beyond perfect, it’s not even fair. But even better than how drop-dead sexy he is, is the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most precious exhibit of all.
“Wow,” he breathes, looking me up and down. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you.” I flush. “This dress is amazing.” I twirl around to show it off.
“After you.” He gestures, and I grab my silk wrap and the purse and step out into the hallway. He rests his hand on my back, walking to the stairs, and god, if my whole body doesn’t go up in flames again just from one little touch.
I missed him.
“So where have you been?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“Just working on a few last-minute surprises,” he says with a mysterious smile.
“For the opening?” I demand, suddenly panicked. “Why? What? Is something wrong?”
“No!” Jake laughs. “Relax, everything is perfect at the exhibit.”
“Are you sure?” I gulp a breath. “God, don’t scare me like that. My whole career is riding on this going off without a hitch.”
“And it will.” Jake gives me a smile that could soothe a rabid beast. “I promise. All you have to do tonight is relax and enjoy yourself.”
I’ve been to plenty of fancy parties at the Met—perks of the job—but there’s nothing like walking into that incredible lobby and seeing it packed with people because of an exhibit I’ve helped curate.
“It’s amazing!” Skye squeals, running up to us. Everyone seems to have embraced the Classic Hollywood theme, and she’s dressed in an ice-blue sheath dress that makes her look like she just stepped off the MGM lot. “The Times is here, and The Washington Post, and Entertainment Tonight is even covering the red carpet because of all the star power here! It’s a hit! You guys have done an awesome job! Everyone’s talking about how brilliant you two are and I’m just so exci—”
“Breathe, Skye,” I laugh.
“No time! I have to make sure the cake has arrived! It was supposed to be here an hour ago . . .” she mutters, her voice trailing off as Morgan approaches, parting the sea of the crowd and swishing across the floor in a long, black gown so tight that I’d be surprised if she’s eaten more than a crust of bread in the last three weeks.
“Bravo!” Morgan smiles, her lips painted a shimmering red, and diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. “You two really pulled it off! I have to admit, I didn’t expect a turnout like this. Not for such a minor exhibit,” she adds, unable to give a compliment that isn’t laced with poison. “Jake, bravo.”
“Not at all,” he says, again pushing me forwards. “This is all Lizzie’s hard work—I really can’t take credit for any of it. It’s her vision. I helped execute it, of course, but she’s the one you should be congratulating.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Well, Lizzie, it seems you’ve outdone yourself. Although, I noticed the Bring Me the Stars section is still minus the necklace. I do hate to leave a promise unfulfilled.”
“That’s my fault,” Jake says smoothly. “I was certain I had a source, but he fell through at the last minute.”
“Oh. Well, we’ll just have to settle.” Morgan catches sight of someone behind us, and smiles for perhaps the first time since 1996. “Darling!” she calls, beckoning, before turning back to us with a smug grin. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Bradley,” she purrs, introducing a distinguished man in his mid-fifties with a luxuriant head of salt-and-pepper hair. “My fiancé.”
She thrusts her hand in my face to show off the giant, princess-cut diamond flanked by two chunky emeralds.
“It worked!” she leans in to whisper. “The strike worked! I starved him out like a general on the battlefield. He admitted defeat and asked me last night!”
“Wow.” I blink. ““I’m so happy for you both. That’s . . . the start of a beautiful relationship!”