Page 5

The Delivery

Abi

This is insane.

I paced through the fancy living room as I waited for my delivery, wondering if I’d completely lost my mind. I still wasn’t sure how it’d all happened, other than the fact that his smug rich-guy face had pissed me off and somehow inspired me to behave as if I had a leg to stand on.

I mean, I definitely needed somewhere to stay since my place was off-limits, so making a deal wasn’t the insane part. He needed a favor, I needed somewhere to sleep; that had been some solid quick thinking on my part.

But his bossiness had somehow made me forget that not only had I been in the wrong to begin with, but I had no leverage.

If I actually did go to his parents and tell them he didn’t have a girlfriend named Abi (which I would never do), he could just call me an unhinged maid who was trying to milk him for a weeklong stay in his lavish condo.

Because that’s literally what I was.

Yet somehow here I was, freshly showered and wearing a luxuriously thick bathrobe, wandering around my favorite unit without a duster in my hand, waiting for a dress to be dropped off.

For me.

To wear to a fancy party.

With a wealthy stranger.

It was definitely the setup to something that ended with a body being buried. I considered myself to be an intelligent person, so my current situation made zero sense.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the knock.

Calm down, everything is going to be fine , I told myself as I pushed my wet hair behind my ears.

I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and walked over to the door. Channeling my inner wealthy person, I pushed my mouth into a smile and pulled open the door.

“Hello,” I said, my hands shaking just a little as three people—and a luggage cart heaped with boxes and bags—stood in the hallway.

There was a tall blond woman, a taller blond man, and a very petite redhead with a long beard that might’ve given him leprechaun vibes if he didn’t have, like, ten piercings on his face and a strong neck that was covered in tattoos.

They were dressed in black, staring like they’d been expecting me.

They looked like a kill squad.

“Are you ready for us, Abi?” asked the blond man, his voice soft and polite.

For what, exactly? I tightened the tie on my robe, pulled it closed a little tighter, and said, “Yes. Of course. Thank you so much for bringing me a dress.”

“Oh, we didn’t bring you a dress,” the woman said, not smiling. “We brought you a look.”

What do I say to that?

Thank you ?

And what did that actually even mean?

“Come in.” I stepped back, and they moved through the door as a single three-humans-and-a-luggage-cart unit.

The blond man looked around before pointing toward the huge dining table. “Can we set up there?”

Set up? I nodded dumbly. “Sure.”

Apparently the one-syllable word was all they needed, because it was on after that. I stood, off to the side, watching in awe as they went to work “setting up.” In fewer than five minutes, they had the fancy dining area looking like a dressing room.

A huge three-way mirror had been erected on top of the table, and a cartful of hair-styling implements—blow dryers, curling irons, tools I couldn’t name—had been unpacked and plugged in.

There was a giant tackle box full of makeup sitting wide-open on the surface, and as I watched, the small guy unfolded a director’s chair and set it in front of the mirror.

The trio looked over at me, and the woman said, “Are you ready?”

“I guess I’m, uh…,” I said, not wanting to sound like I didn’t know what was going on when I totally had no idea what was going on.

It looked like they were all loaded-out to do my hair and makeup, but who was going to be paying for it?

I surely couldn’t afford this kind of treatment, and to be honest, I wasn’t interested even if I could.

I’d never been talented with makeup, and my hair had its own unruly curls that did whatever they wanted, so I’d decided in tenth grade that the “natural look” was my jam. A little blush and mascara, a messy bun—I pretty much called it good at that.

But this? This scared me. I tried sounding unfazed when I said, “I just realized that Declan forgot to leave me his card when he left. Let me give him a call—”

“We don’t need a card,” the woman said. “We’ll just bill Mr. Powell.”

“Who?”

“Declan…?” The woman’s eyebrows furrowed together just the tiniest bit.

“Oh,” I nearly shouted, my cheeks getting hot as I tried recovering. I hadn’t even realized that I had zero idea what my fake boyfriend’s/potential murderer’s last name was.

Powell. Declan Powell.

I spoke quickly when I said, “I thought you said Mr. Lowell, which is my uncle’s last name, so I got super confused for a second. Don’t mind me. You meant Declan. Duh.”

And then I fell into some ridiculous fake giggles that made me want to punch myself.

Thankfully, the trio laughed and didn’t look suspicious.

The redhead gestured to the chair with his arms in a sweeping please sit down here motion.

“Okay,” I said, pulling the robe tighter still before walking over and taking a seat in front of the mirrors.

The face that stared back at me was shiny and embarrassed, and as three strangers watched me like they were waiting for a sign, the moment felt excruciating.

“I’m new to…whatever this is, so do I need to, like, tell you anything here, or should I shut up and let you do your thing? ”

“We are more than happy to proceed however you wish,” the blond guy said, leaning down to grin at me in the mirror. “But if you do shut up and let us do our thing, you won’t be disappointed.”

“Shutting up, then,” I said, gesturing that I was locking my lips. “What are your names, by the way?”

“I am Johnny,” the redhead said from behind me, looking very serious in the mirror as he squirted some sort of hair product into his palm. “I’ll be styling your hair.”

“And I’m Katarina,” said the blond woman, also not smiling. “Your makeup artist.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, watching Johnny as he rubbed his hands together, evenly dispensing the goop to both palms while staring at the top of my head.

“When they’re finished, I will dress you,” the blond guy said. “I’m Edward, a stylist.”

“Nice to meet you,” I repeated, wondering yet again if I was dreaming. Like, this couldn’t really be happening, right?

“I would like to cut this to your shoulders,” Johnny said, running both hands over my hair. “What are your thoughts?”

I looked in the mirror and wasn’t sure. I’d always had long hair. Always. It felt like I should refuse, because (a) it was ridiculous to get my length taken off for one night, and (b) even though he looked cool, I didn’t have a clue as to how good Johnny was with a pair of scissors.

He could be the one responsible for micro-bangs, for all I knew.

Johnny Scissorhands.

But it also occurred to me, as I sat in the luxurious makeshift dressing room, that I’d never have this chance again.

A beauty team at my beck and call?

This didn’t happen in the real world.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said, throwing hair-caution to the wind. “But no bangs.”

“With your potato-shaped face?” Johnny said with a snort. “I would never.”

Potato-shaped face ? I smiled like that made sense. “Okay, good.”

“Quick question while he cuts,” Edward said, crossing his arms over his chest. “The dresses I’ve curated for tonight are all black, because when Mr. Powell said you were a redhead, I couldn’t comfortably select a color without knowing your skin tone.

Is that okay with you, or should I call for backup?

Because now that I see you’re neutral, I can absolutely get some brighter options if you prefer. ”

Was this man seriously telling me that if I didn’t like black, he could send for more dresses?

What is this life?

“Black’s my favorite, actually,” I said to Edward. “So no need for backup.”

“Excellent,” he said, looking relieved. “And I’m assuming you’re okay with classic red polish for fingers and toes?”

“You’re doing my fingers and toes?”

“Well, I’m not, but Kat is.”

I glanced at Katarina, who appeared to be unloading all the makeup in the world from the tackle box.

Yes, I know, Kat—I’m quite a project.

“Now, Abi. This is important.” Edward stepped in front of me and rested his backside on the edge of the table, giving me (finally) a friendly smile.

“While Johnny and Kat work their magic, you and I will be talking through the basics of what you’ll need to know for this party.

Mr. Powell prepared a dossier of information for your ingestion. ”

My ingestion.

I felt like laughing at the absurdity of all this, but inhaled through my nose and kept it together.

“Okay,” I said, nodding, surprised that this man seemed to know what Declan and I were up to. We weren’t trying to rob a bank or plot a murder, but I still would’ve assumed that the guy who’d showed up at Benny’s earlier wanted our ruse to be top secret.

He must really trust this glam team.

Which was…a little weird, right?

Did Declan Powell do this often? Why did he even have a team of stylists at the ready? I’d never been wealthy so I had no frame of reference, but a makeover team didn’t seem like something that would be common for wealthy single guys to have on speed dial.

“Don’t overthink it,” Edward said, watching me with a patient smile, almost like he could read my mind. “Just channel your inner Cinderella and have fun with this, okay? It’s just one night of your life.”

Just one night of my life.

He was right. It was just one evening.

“Okay,” I agreed, nodding and feeling a smile settle over me. Because why not? This was a bizarre, once-in-a-lifetime situation I could either stress myself out about, or I could lean into and have a good time that I could use in a story someday.

I almost gasped when that thought hit me, because I could use it in a story now .

School started a few weeks ago, and it was the final year of my MFA.

I had three more “packets” of written work to create and submit this semester before the thesis manuscript became my focus, and I’d been racking my brain for solid ideas.

I had a notebook full of possibilities, content that could potentially work into my short story collection, but a fish-out-of-water Cinderella tale was something uniquely different from the rest.

Holy shit . This entire experience—meeting Charles and Elaine, Declan’s appearance at my job, the makeover, the party—could become such an interesting little piece of fiction.

Like a switch being flipped, my nervousness was replaced by excitement. I looked around the room and couldn’t wait to capture every ridiculous detail of this ridiculous day.

“I’m going to scooch on over to the wine fridge and fetch a nice little something,” Edward said, pointing toward the kitchen. “Because we definitely need to share a toast before officially launching this transformation, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely I do,” I replied, noticing in the mirror that my smile was obnoxiously huge. “There’s also an unopened bag of Dove caramel squares behind the milk in the refrigerator—that would pair nicely with a Riesling, don’t you think?”