Page 153 of Facing Off
All that doesn’t explain why Iris is here.
“How did Adrian find out the gala is tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Your dance mistress emailed him, wondering if he’ll be there.”
My blood boils. Why the hell am I not surprised she did? She still thinks we’re married and wants him there. She wants his name on the guest list, his face in the crowd, his wallet opened wide.
“And what did he say?” I ask.
“Nothing. He told me it’s all up to you. But if you’re going, he wants to be there if you’ll have him.” She smiles. “He also said you’re too busy to have to worry about what to wear. So he sent me here in case you don’t have an outfit for the gala. And before you say anything, I’m supposed to give you this.”
She thrusts the brown paper bag towards me.
I open it.
Shocked warmth pulses through me.
It’s the same kind of cookies I devoured back when we were flying to find Jung at the World Championships.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles because I haven’t had dinner.
What a sneaky evil genius.
Even when he’s away, on the road for a game—he knows what I can’t resist.
There’s also a handwritten note inside.
Sonya, darling. If you’re going, can I come to the gala with you? I promise I’ll behave! Unless you don’t want me to? In that case, I promise to misbehave all night, baby ;)
I’m struggling so hard not to laugh. “Come in, Iris.”
Four cookies in, I’m sprawled out. Blissfully.
Iris also brought dinner, but I’m going to eat that later. Dessert always tastes better first.
“Should we look at the outfits?” she asks, unzipping garment bags so I see what they’ve been covering up.
The gowns are expensive. Designer brands.
That’s not all.
That warmth inside me triples in strength.
They’re all made out of black fabric. Not a hint of any other color.
One catches my eye.
Iris puts a hand on her chest and sighs. “Oh. That’s my favorite, too.”
It’s the night of the gala, and I’m standing on top of a soaring spiral staircase.
The train of my dress trails behind me as I descend. I’m in a column of black velvet that hugs every inch of me, except for the leg-showing split in the skirt and my bare shoulders. My hair is pulled back in a polished bun. Everystrand is sleek and without my bangs in the way, my eyes and the delicate arch of my neck are highlighted. I’m the perfect, brown-skinned ballerina. Poised. Polished. Exactly what they want to see…except for my eye makeup. It’s smoky, sharp, and deliberately defiant. The small rebellion I allow myself, just to feel likeme.
The steps I walk are lined with lush, intricately patterned carpet. That means he doesn’t hear me approach. The staircase curves near the bottom, shielding me from his view, so I stop, just before the turn, tucked out of sight. I get to admire him first. He’s in a tuxedo, exquisitely tailored. A few strands of his blonde hair have fallen forward on his forehead, but the rest of his hair is styled back. He’s adjusting his cuffs and straightening invisible wrinkles in his jacket, these strangely nervous gestures.
He must be exhausted. He flew in directly from an away exhibition game. It’s the last one before their regular season starts and the Wings have been giving it everything they got, experimenting with different lineups each period. That’s an update from Adrian—that I requested. Along with other ones, I’m getting from Quinn that I also seem to want. Like how they’re doing overall in their preseason games, who is winning, if anyone scored, who was it, has any new lineup worked, what’s the morale of the Wings like, how are they holding up…
Hockey stuff I’d normally never dive into is suddenly imperative to my life.
