Page 125 of By A Thread
The show began, and I maintained a modicum of interest while carefully searching the faces of the audience on the other side of the elevated runway. No red dress. No Ally.
The thing about fashion shows is it’s a lot of buildup, a lot of invested time, money, and energy for a few minutes of payoff. The models made their way past me one by one. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes. And not a damn one of them held a candle to my missing-in-action personal assistant.
Finally, the lights came up, and that’s when I found her.
On the arm of Christian “About to Be a Dead Man” James.
They strolled down the runway arm-in-arm, laughing at an inside joke that they shouldn’t have. There was a stir around me. I don’t know if it was the dress, the designer, or the girl.Mygirl.
He pirouetted her like a fucking ballerina at the end of the aisle to the delighted applause of the crowd.
My mother elbowed me. “Start clapping, you clod,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
I clapped with a decisive lack of enthusiasm, imagining smashing Christian’s face between my palms. They were coming back now, still laughing, the crowd still applauding. Trailed by the rest of the models that I didn’t even see now. Because my attention was focused entirely on the small, white pearlescent heart sewn onto the dress’s bodice.
Right over Ally’s breast.
It was cracked down the middle.
Just like Christian’s face would be if he’d sewn it on her personally.
43
Ally
Okay. So it had been pretty damn cool to strut down the runway in a beautiful dress on the arm of a very attractive man in front of the guy who’d rejected me repeatedly.
When I returned to the party, I felt almost cheerful.
And suddenly exhausted. I wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and relive Dom’s shock over and over again in my head. I’d give it another twenty minutes, say my goodbyes, and be in bed within an hour.
“Oh. My. God. That was amazing.Youwere amazing,” Gola squealed.
“I’m considering murdering you and assuming your identity,” Missie trilled. I got the feeling she was only half-kidding.
“Not creepy at all,” I told her.
“That was incredible,” Ruth said, throwing her arms around me and hugging me tight.
“Thanks. Now I could use a drink.”
We moved en masse toward the bar. When I ordered a water, the bartender shot me a sly smile and leaned in. “Someone in a vest almost as sexy as mine was frantically scanning the crowd looking for you earlier.”
I grinned. Victory was mine. It was a good night.
A very young woman I didn’t know popped up next to me and squealed. “Girl, you are already trending.” She held up her phone to my face. A fashion blogger had tweeted a photo of the end of the show, me and Christian laughing at the end of the runway.
Christian James ends show with mystery woman in #heartbreakerdress on arm.
I felt almost euphoric.
And then I wondered where Dominic was.
And then I wanted to slap myself for wondering.
I was going to need to start wearing a rubber band on my wrist and snap it every time I thought of him. At this rate, I’d amputate my hand inside of twenty minutes.
The runway was disassembled into artsy cubes and rearranged for uncomfortable perching. Everyone was hitting the open bar like it was last call, and those little appetizers were doing nothing to soak up the liquor. It was entertaining, but I had a feeling this is how bad things happened at office Christmas parties.
