Page 39 of Convenient Mafia Vows

“Get a grip, Victoria.” I peer at my reflection in the mirror. “You’re a female. You know what needs to be done here.”

I stick to neutral colors, keeping it subtle. Dragon-face—yes, I’ve already ditched the Olivia—is bound to go OTT, and no one likes a showoff peacock. At least, that’s what I repeat like a mantra in my head.

Oh man, what a difference expensive makeup makes. When I’m finished, I turn my head this way and that in front of the mirror and a frisson of pleasure rushes through me.

Do I really look like this?

Will Caleb even notice?

Dragging myself away from the mirror, I stand in front of the rail filled with runway-worthy dresses and stare. What color should I wear? Should I stick to the reliable little black dress or be adventurous and wear Barbie pink or lilac or sunflower-yellow?

“No.” I shake my head at the yellow. Not for tonight.

I pull out a pink dress with a plunging neckline and hold it in front of me. Maybe…

But when I try it on, I know it isn’t right. I’m way too nervous to pull it off tonight in front of Caleb and Dragon-face, and the mayor of New York City.

I tug it back over my head, careful not to smudge my makeup and hang it back up, a little askew, but my heart is racing erratically, and my mouth is too dry for me to fuss over it. It feels, irrationally, as if the rest of my life is riding on tonight.

Next, I try on a sparkling gold dress which looks dazzling on the hanger and makes me resemble a Christmas tree angel standing in front of the mirror.

Nope!

Tossing adventure to the wind, I resort to a safe black dress. Too dowdy. The silver dress is only marginally less Christmassy than the gold, the blue is boring, and the green is … not the right shade. The white pantsuit is stunning, but when an image of me spilling red wine on it pops into my head, I quickly undress and add it to the growing mountain of clothes on the floor.

I lose track of time. How can choosing an outfit be this difficult? I bet Blake Lively doesn’t have this problem, but then she probably has a whole team of people choosing her designer outfits for her.

I’m so hot that sweat is beading on my upper lip, and I’m worried that I’m going to need to shower again before I go out. When I hear the elevator ping and Caleb’s footsteps crossing the living room, I’m back in the first little black dress I tried on before outfit-mountain became a thing.

I freeze. Should I go and speak to him in the living room or wait until it’s time to leave? Will he want to see what I’m wearing, or should I surprise him? I know so little about the man I’m supposed to be in love with that I can’t even figure out something as simple as getting ready for an evening on the town.

Heart thumping, I listen for the sounds of movement around the apartment. Silence. Then water running. He’s taking a shower.

Now I wish I wasn’t so indecisive because it’s almost time to leave.

I wait for his clipped footsteps across the hallway floor before I tentatively open my bedroom door and step outside. Caleb is standing there, staring at the doorway, and our eyes meet, my cheeks growing even hotter. Damn! At this rate, I’ll have to redo my makeup before we leave.

“Is-is this okay?” I chew my bottom lip while Caleb’s eyes roam my body, making me feel naked.

He doesn’t speak.

“I didn’t know what to wear.” I find myself instinctively filling the silence.

Caleb looks me directly in the eye and says, “Come with me.” Then he takes my hand and leads me back inside my bedroom, past the bed taking center-stage and into the dressing room.

My heart is racing sickeningly. Why is it that whenever Caleb touches me, my mind immediately sends images of Danny Zuko into my head?

Come with me.

It’s what Danny said when he took my hand outside the restrooms in the nightclub, and my heart has latched onto it and is sending all sorts of crazy signals down to my sex. Jeez, I need to get a grip.

Caleb takes a hanger from the rail and holds it out for me. It’s a red dress with a Bardot neckline, cinched waist, and floor-length hem that would drag across the floor like a wedding gown train on me. “Try this.”

“I…” I swallow. “It’s red.” It’s so red that I never even looked at it because it isn’t my color.

Caleb smiles, and I realize that he’s still holding the dress.

I take it from him and stand there like I’m waiting for him to give me instructions. When it’s blatantly obvious that he isn’t going anywhere until I try on the dress, I murmur, “Will you turn around?”

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