Page 61 of Heart Set on You

“I’m okay.”

Georgia flashes me a gentle smile. “Then let’s go find you a dress.”

* * *

“That has to be the one. You are giving me major Scarlett Johansson vibes.”

Georgia is standing behind me, eyeing me in a gown that must cost more than my annual salary. I wouldn’t know for sure, though – Miles gave the boutique and Georgia strict instructions not to share the price tags with me, knowing I wouldn’t feel okay about spending much money on a dress I’ll probably only wear once. A girl doesn’t often need a gown on the farm.

“I’m pretty sure Ms. Johansson would take offense to that,” I tell her, catching her eye in the mirror.

“I’m not kidding. It looks like it was made for you. We would only have to hem the length. The bodice fits you like a glove.”

“Do you think Miles will like it?”

“Are you kidding me? I will be picking him up off the floor. I think it’s perfect, but we can try on a few more.”

Right after I told Miles I would be his date for the Artist Awards, he was on the phone with Georgia asking her to book me a private shopping appointment at an exclusive boutique. I argued with him, insisting that I could find a dress myself at The Grove, but he just smiled and said, “Let me do this for you. I want to spoil you.”

So here I am, standing on a pedestal wearing a high-necked emerald green gown with a fitted bodice and a long, flowy silk crepe skirt. The dress is nicer than anything I’ve ever seen in my life, but I can’t help but feel like an imposter wearing it.

“I don’t think I need to see any more. I really like this one.”

“Perfect. I’ll have the sales lady come over here and fit you.”

An older woman with an Italian accent starts pinning the hem of the gown while Georgia works on her laptop, taking occasional breaks to fuss with my hair.

“I think you should wear your hair down. I don’t think it’s long enough to put up. I’m thinking a side part and waves. Maybe one side behind your ear,” she says, tapping a finger to her chin. “I’ll have a stylist come to the house. You should also go for a manicure and a pedicure. I’ll set that up for you too.”

“That’s really not necessary. I can do my own hair. I can paint my nails myself too.”

Georgia walks around me so she’s in front of me with a thoughtful look in her eye. “You could, but Miles would kill me. He wants to do this for you. Can I give you some advice?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve known Miles a long time and he’s never asked me to set up a dress fitting, or even asked a girl to be his date for an event. The girls you see him with in photos at these events are usually dates that have been set up to benefit both parties, if you know what I mean. This is making him happy, trust me. Let him do this for you.”

“Okay. I won’t argue. This is just a lot for me to get used to.”

Georgia nods. “I can only imagine. Miles’ life is a lot to get used to, but if it’s what you two want, you will figure it out in time.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rylee

A week later, we’ve arrived in L.A. Miles lives in the Bird Streets, a prestigious and expensive area up in the hills that overlooks West Hollywood. It’s home to the celebrity elite, the who’s who of La La Land. The homes are all hidden behind mechanical gates, the winding roads marked with palm trees.

I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but everything about his house is a surprise. It’s warm and inviting, with a gallery of black-and-white family photos hung on the entryway wall.

“Your sister?” I ask, pointing out a photo of a little girl with a gap-toothed grin.

“Yep, that’s Jules,” he says.

“And your parents,” I say, stopping at another picture of the Bennetts sitting together at a black-tie event, Miles’ mom resting her head against his dad’s shoulder. “They always look so in love.” I try to take in as much as I can in the few seconds we spend gazing at the memory wall.

Miles pulls me further into his home. The house itself isn’t overly large, a modern rancher with a view of the city below. The floors are polished concrete, and the kitchen is open concept with sleek, dark cabinets and glass windows overlooking a large deck, a pool and hot tub. There is no question that a man lives here. The walls are painted gray, the furniture is all rich leather, and a huge TV is mounted on the wall in the family room. There are three bedrooms, including Miles’, which opens out onto the deck. It couldn’t be more different from the tiny apartment I share with Meg in Burbank. Or the farm where I grew up for that matter. It reminds me just how different our lives are.

When we reach his bedroom, he sets our bags down on the bed. I scan the room quickly before he turns around, noticing the California King bed in the middle of the room with its dark navy duvet and crisp white sheets. A large black-and-white photo of a Los Angeles street lined with palm trees hangs on the wall across from the bed. It all feels like Miles.

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