Page 51 of Art of Love

He glanced at her, something flickering behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.

The rest of the flight passed in warm conversation, laughter, and the quiet hum of something unspoken between them. Something that felt dangerously close to falling.

And Dylan, somewhere between coffee refills and cloud watching, realized she didn’t mind the fall at all.

When they landed in LA, a sleek black limo was already waiting for them at the private terminal. Dylan’s sneakers squeaked on the polished pavement as she climbed in, tugging self-consciously at her hoodie. She felt like a fraud, just a small-town girl who didn’t own a single silk dress or diamond. But Abe looked completely at ease, sunglasses on, arm slung around her shoulders like he belonged to this sleek world. And maybe, when he looked at her like that, she did too.

The hotel was downtown and looked like a palace. The lobby ceiling soared like a cathedral’s, with chandeliers big enough to need their own zip code. Staff greeted Abe by name and handed her a glass of champagne before she could even open her mouth.

They were shown into a private elevator by a bellboy who carried their luggage on one of those rolling carts. Even though it was just her small bag and Abe’s duffle bag, the man treated them like they were fragile vases.

Then he opened the door to the suite.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, stepping into the marble-floored entrance. The space was bigger than her entire apartment in Portland, not to mention the cabin home she’d grown up in and was currently occupying in Pride. She stepped into the sunken living room, which had floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city skyline. Next to it was a dining table set for ten, and a balcony with a hot tub. There were two bedrooms that sat across from one another, each with their own bathrooms, which were the fanciest things she’d ever seen.

“Oh my god,” she said again, this time pointing at the rack of dresses waiting in the corner like couture soldiers at attention. “What are those for?”

“You.” Abe took her hands in his.

“What is happening?” she whispered.

“They sent along some options in your size for the party tonight, along with a stylist, who should be here soon,” Abe said, smiling.

“Is this real?” she whispered, feeling a little like Cinderella waiting for her fairy godmother to wave her wand.

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. He opened it and in came a team of hair and makeup professionals and a stylist who greeted her like they were old friends. Abe was ushered out before she could protest.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, giving her a quick kiss as he slipped out, somehow managing to make jeans and a plain T-shirt look like a fashion statement.

She was pushed down into a plush velvet chair before she could even process what was happening. Her backpack was long forgotten in the corner of the massive suite. Two stylists immediately flanked her like a pit crew at a race. One tugged gently at her hair with deft fingers, murmuring about texture and shine, while the other surveyed her face like it was a blank canvas about to be turned into a piece of art.

Someone refilled her champagne glass before she’d even made it halfway through the first. The bubbles tickled her nose as she sipped, trying not to fidget for the stylists.

The hairstylist curled her hair into soft, romantic waves, each lock coaxed into shape with a gentle tug and a spritz of something that smelled expensive and a little like jasmine. The makeup brushes swept across her cheeks, her lids, and her lips, so soft and precise she nearly melted into the chair. If they hadn’t been chatting softly about contouring and red carpet lighting, she might have dozed off entirely.

By the time they were done, she hardly recognized herself. Her skin glowed, her eyes looked impossibly wide and bright, and her lips, glossed with something called “Starlit Rose” looked kissable in a way that made her blush to notice.

Then came the rack of dresses.

The dresses had been picked through by the stylist at one point and narrowed down to a couple choices while she’d been under the spell of soft bristles and styling wands. Every color shimmered under the crystal lights. Sequins, silk, lace, and chiffon all draped like promises waiting to be broken.

She looked over the half dozen options, trailing a finger over the expensive fabrics like she didn’t belong in the room. But when she spotted the midnight blue cocktail dress, she stopped cold.

Plunging neckline. Open back. Delicate beadwork traced the hem like constellations. It was elegant but bold, sleek but with just enough sparkle to make her feel like a walking secret.

She hesitated for only a second then pulled it from the rack and slipped into the next room to put it on.

When she emerged a few minutes later, she actually forgot to breathe.

The dress hugged her body like it had been custom-made for her. The hem skimmed the middle of her thighs, revealing legs she’d never thought much about before but which suddenly felt like an asset. The legs that Abe had fixated on and enjoyed so much.

The fabric of the dress clung to her waist, dipped low across her back, and plunged just daringly enough in the front to make her heat.

She turned slowly in front of the mirror, her heart thudding.

She looked… stunning. Not like herself. Or maybe exactly like the version of herself she’d always hoped to become.

She was still adjusting the thin strap on her shoulder when the suite door clicked open behind her.