Page 19 of My Puckin' Luck
“Yes, um, can you put them over there?” I point to the table behind a large leather couch. The last time I was here, at the game after party, a man and woman were making out on it and people crowded in this room. The man stacks the boxes. I count five of them.
As he makes his way back to the door, I realize I don’t have my purse, and never carry cash with me, anyway. “I’m sorry. I-I don’t have a tip for you. I just woke up and?—”
“No tip needed. Mr. St. James took care of it all. I’ll be back.”
“Back?” My jaw drops as I watch him load up a dolly and bring in two more loads of boxes. “What the freaking hell?”
Oh my God. Saint bought me an entire wardrobe. But how did he know what to order? He probably thinks I’m a size eight when I’m a solid eighteen; men have no clue about these things. I’m going to be so embarrassed if everything is the wrong size and I have to send it all back. Which I should do anyway; he’s gone overboard.
The driver leaves and I brace myself, tackling the first box. Inside is an adorable pair of blue suede boots, knee high, wide calf, reminding me of the color of the Puckers’ uniforms. And my correct size. I’m impressed so far.
I open the next box and find a few pairs of jeans. My heart jumps for joy that they actually are my size and should fit. Another box has sweaters and tops, again, looking promising.
“How did he do all of this?” Mystified, I finish the rest, laying it all out on the couch, checking every size label and admiring his taste. Most of it things I would have picked for myself, with the exception of a few daring, revealing, skintight, low-cut things he’s probably hoping I’ll wear for him so he can get an eyeful of me. I just might, at least to thank him.
I remove the lid on the last box and—holy crap—it contains an entire collection of matching panties and lacy bras, enough for everyday of the week. My cheeks flame as pink as could be. Who is this man?
I text him back.
Anastasia: It’s too much, Saint. You’ve sent me a month’s worth of clothes. A few things from a cheap department store would have been enough for me to get by until I’m back in my apartment. You should return most of this.
Saint: Do you like cheap department store clothes better than what I sent you?
I bite my lip, touring my eyes over the beautiful array of colors and fabrics against the backdrop of the black leather couch.
Saint: I didn’t think so. Keep it all. You don’t owe me a thing.
Anastasia: But you’re already having to support your mother. I can’t let you spend this kind of money on me.
Saint: I have millions, in case you didn’t know. This is nothing. Let me do this for you.
I knew he had to have been rich, being a man in possession of this house, but how rich? Plenty? Obnoxiously?
Saint: That wasn’t a question. You’re keeping it all. You know you want it all. End of discussion.
I have no words, torn between continuing to fight it, and tickled that he’s thought of everything. What is my life right now? A week ago, Saint didn’t factor in, now I’m in his home, mine ruined, and he’s taking control like it’s the most natural thing. Like I’m his—but I’m not, and we’re just roommates for the time being.
Saint: I picked up my car at Jimmy’s and I’m bringing home lunch. Be there soon. Why don’t you go take a nice a bath? The guest bath is okay, but I give you permission to use the nicer tub in my bathroom.
My throat works at the idea of luxuriating in the same bathtub he uses. But have many other women as well? I shake my head of that thought because of course they have. I’ll settle for a shower in the guest bathroom.
I pick something comfy to wear for the game tonight, leggings, the blue boots and a cowl neck sweater in a pretty shade of maroon. With scissors I find in the kitchen, I cut the tags off. The entire time, my brain is abuzz, trying to reconcile Saint’s actions while worrying about my condo.
When I start the water in the shower, I text him back while waiting for the water to warm.
Anastasia: Thank you. I’ll pay you back every cent.
He doesn’t reply. Infuriating.
Half of me loves this though. The screenwriter part of me. His actions feed right into my Pretty Woman fantasy. After all, the studio spent beaucoup bucks on a marketing survey of our demographic—women between the ages of thirty to sixty-five—to find out exactly what they want in their holiday romance movies.
Number one fantasy? A man who swoops in to save the day every time. Tied for number one fantasy? A man with money and means to take care of her every need.
I’ve always had a tiny struggle with this. Most of the time, I’m one of those women, wishing for a tall, handsome guy to save me and spend his money on me, fixing all my problems. But a small percentage of me knows that’s a dream. I write those dream worlds for women to escape into, and I do a damn good job of it. After all, I grew up with a single mother who fervently wished for a knight in shining armor. Reading me to sleep with princess books as our nightly ritual, and Cinderella as my invisible friend.
Although it took her years, Mom finally found her knight in Roberto Philini, a retired judge from Italy who occasionally consults on Hollywood movies about the law in his country. They moved to his Italian villa last year. We keep in touchoften through email, where she mostly includes photos of her new charmed life in shot after shot of the Sicilian countryside. She wants me to visit soon, but I’ve been busy at the studio and haven’t made solid plans. I’m happy for her, of course. She deserves it.
On a long sigh, I peel the satin minidress off of me, and hold it up, only it’s not as snowy white as when it was new. I toss it and the rest of my garments to the floor and step under the water.
