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Marco mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “picky bastard” but moves on. He pulls out a pale cream suit, the fabric so soft it looks like it’s been spun from moonlight. “This,” he says, holding it up with a flourish. “This is the one.”

I step closer, running my fingers over the fabric. It’s smooth, almost silken, and the color is warm without being ostentatious. “What do you pair it with?”

“Charcoal shirt,” he says without hesitation. “No tie. Keep it relaxed but refined. And these—” He pulls out a pair of Italian loafers, the leather polished to a mirror shine. “—will tie it all together.”

I nod, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction. “This’ll do.”

Marco smirks as he helps me into the suit. “You’re going to knock her dead, Mr. Ramone.”

“That’s the idea,” I mutter, adjusting the cuffs. The fit is perfect, the fabric draping over my frame in a way that’s both flattering and comfortable. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows and can’t help but feel a flicker of anticipation.

“You’re sure about this?” Marco asks, his tone teasing. “I’ve never seen you this... particular.”

“It’s just a date,” I say, though the words feel hollow. “Nothing more.”

Marco chuckles, gathering the rejected suits. “If you say so. But if you need a time machine to skip ahead to eight o’clock, let me know. I might have one in the back.”

I shoot him a glare, but he’s already wheeling the rack out the door, whistling a tune that’s far too cheerful for my liking. I glance at the clock. Three hours to go. Three hours too long.

CHAPTER 3

TYLER

I’m pacing back and forth between my room and the living room, holding up one outfit after another, and Cindy’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, sipping her iced latte like she’s the queen of fashion.

“Thoughts?” I ask, holding up a loose floral blouse and high-waisted jeans.

Cindy gives me a look that could wither a cactus. “Tyler, no. You look like you’re auditioning for ‘Grandma Chills at the Park.’”

I huff, tossing the outfit onto the back of the couch. “Fine.” I disappear into my room and come back with a sweater and a knee-length skirt. “This?”

She scrunches her nose. “You’re going on a date, not a church potluck.”

I throw my hands up. “Okay, Miss Fashionista, what do YOU think I should wear?”

Cindy’s grin is so wide I’m pretty sure she’s been waiting for this moment all day. She sets her latte on the coffee table and hops up, practically bouncing into her room. I stand there, arms crossed, tapping my foot as I hear the rustling of hangers and the occasional “aha!” from her closet.

She returns holding a hanger with a black dress draped over it. It’s short. Like,shortshort. And the neckline? Let’s just say it’s not designed for modesty.

My mouth drops open. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not wearing that.”

Cindy holds it up like she’s presenting a prize on a game show. “This, my dear, is your first-date dress. It’s flattering, it’s sexy, and it says, ‘Hey, I’m not just the girl who brushes your dog.’”

“It also says, ‘Hey, I’m freezing and possibly indecent!’” I shoot back, my face heating up.

Cindy rolls her eyes. “Tyler, you’re going on a date with a billionaire. Not some guy who thinks Olive Garden is fancy. This is your chance to go big or go home.”

I glance at the dress again, my stomach doing a nervous flip. “I don’t even know if I’m ready for ‘big.’ What if I spill something? What if I trip? What if?—”

Cindy cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “What if you have the best night of your life? Trust me, you’re rocking this dress. Now, go put it on before I start charging you for my fashion advice.”

I take the hanger, my fingers brushing against the silky fabric. It feels foreign, like something I’d admire on someone else but never dare to wear myself. But Cindy’s right about one thing—tonight’s different. Maybe I should be too.

“Fine,” I mutter, heading back to my room. “But if I end up on the floor because of these heels, I’m blaming you.”

Cindy laughs.

“Deal. Now, move it. He’s picking you up in an hour.”