Page 10 of The One Night Dash
When I brought it to Sal, he just looked at me, raised one eyebrow, muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously likeyou hockey animals,and told me to come back in two days. I didn’t believe him. I figured I’d frame the thing with the stain still there.
But when I picked it up? Pristine. Not a trace. Like the game never happened, like the blood never touched it. That’s when I knew nothing was beyond him.
“Uh-huh.” She tips her head, studying me suspiciously.
“Saw your dress got taken out by a latte bomb. Right place, wrong time.”
She crosses her arms, but it’s half-hug, half-defense. “Let me guess … you felt bad for me that your girl … whatever she is, destro?—”
I grin. “Just finished a photoshoot she was also in, considered hanging out with her.”Better than saying fucking. “Realized she was kind of a bitch.”
She harrumphs.
I nod toward a pile of clothes spilling out of a wicker basket. “I didn’t want to watch a perfectly good dress get buried in your laundry pile.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “It’s not a pile. It’s … an organized system.”
“Sure, it is,” I say. “Color-coded by mood?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says, deadpan. “It’s color-coded by genre.”
That earns a laugh out of me, and for the first time since I stepped in, her shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Let me guess,” I say, leaning a little closer. “Red for murder, pink for kissing, blue for ‘boy meets girl but also the dog dies?’”
Her mouth quirks like she’s trying not to laugh. “Close. Red for historical bodice rippers, pink for contemporary steam, blue for … emotionally devastating.”
“Where’s coffee-stained couture go?” I nod toward the garment bag on the table.
She glances at it, then back at me. “That one’s a special category called ‘tragedy.’”
I grin. “Good thing I’m here to rescue it from the archives.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement there now. “You’re just going to take it and … what? Your guy will magically make this mess disappear?”
“Secret?” I ask in a whisper, and she nods. “Sal’s not really magic; he’s a professional.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s weighing the pros and cons. “And why exactly would you go out of your way to help me?”
I give a small shrug. “Because coffee and silk don’t mix. And maybe because when I called Nalani and Koa, she stressed it was ‘the perfect dress.’ A girl needs that when sheoccasionally leaves for other adventures.I’d rather hear you had a great time in that dress than watch it die a slow, caffeinated death.”
That earns the tiniest huff of a laugh from her. “My sign.”
I nod.
“Yeah, well, the dress isn’t exactly for an adventure,” she mumbles like she doesn’t want me to hear her.
But I do. “So, what occasion is it for?”
She looks at me blankly for a few minutes then shakes her head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Do me a favor?” I say, and she nods. “Message Nalani and tell her you’re fine before she sends a search party.”
She reaches for her phone on the coffee table, next to the garment bag, swipes at the screen … and nothing happens. She tries again. Still black.
“It was working earlier,” she mutters, hitting the power button like the harder she does, the more likely it is to turn on. “Now it’s just … not.”
I glance at the garment bag then at her phone.
