Page 26 of Sinful Mafia Santa

“Try this one, dear,” Martha says.

I step into the fitting room, leaving the door ajar. “I appreciate all the work you’ve done on such short notice,” I say as I shrug out of my coat.

“I love pulling together collections like this,” she says.

“You certainly have some beautiful things to choose from.” I step out of my shoes and tug off my dress.

“Why thank you, dear,” Martha says with a laugh. And then, “Oh my…”

For one uneasy second, I think she’s seen my bruises from last night. But then she clicks her tongue three quick times and shakes her head with a fluttery little laugh. “I’m sorry, dear. You’ll need something under that dress.”

My cheeks turn scarlet. It’s a sign of her hospitality that I forgot I have no knickers. “I’m sorry—” I start to apologize, but she only waves a wrinkled hand.

“None of that,” she says with a bright smile. “You wouldn’t believe how often my customers lack appropriate underthings.” She trills another laugh and slips out of the fitting room. She’s gone for less than a minute before she returns with a pair of simple cotton briefs.

She busies herself with the sapphire gown as I pull on my new knickers. “Now,” she says, passing me the delicate dress. “Let’s see how this looks.”

It looks amazing.

It looks like every stitch was made specifically for my body.The waistline traces my curves like a lover. The color turns my hair into shining bronze. My eyes deepen to a green not found in nature. My shoulders—naturally broad—look delicate but strong.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe. I don’t know where I’ll wear it, but it has to be mine.

“Itisstunning,” Martha says. “But maybe we’ll like the next one even more.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head as I look over my shoulder into the mirror. “I won’t like anything more. This is perfect.”

Martha brings me shoes—sedate sandals that are infinitely more comfortable than my stilettos. She offers a simple pearl choker as well, along with matching earrings. I half-expect her to summon a crystal coach, like an honest-to-God fairy godmother.

“There,” she says before offering a sly wink. “Shall we keep all of this a surprise for Mr. Rider?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

And that’s what we do. I find Gage at the front of the store, where he’s watching a uniformed meter maid slip a parking ticket under the Porsche’s windshield wiper. “I told you!” I said.

“Cost of doing business,” he says. “Did you find something?”

I suddenly feel shy. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Martha calls him over to the register, and he works some magic with a black American Express card. “Thank you,” I say to Martha as Gage collects a bag brimming with silver tissue paper.

“My pleasure,” she says. “I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.” Her joyous laugh follows us out of the store.

Gage opens the Porsche’s passenger door, but I feel awkward folding into the sports car. My coat almost catches in the door, and my shoulder twinges when I twist around for the seatbelt.

I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.

Ican. I’ve spent Christmas Eve the exact same way the last ten years—getting drunk on whiskey, toasting Logan’s memory. I owe that to my brother, to never forget my role in how he died.

Shaking my head, I remind myself that none of this can last. This trip to New York is a farewell to my old life. I head home to Chicago tomorrow, to open the diner my father demands, to take my place as a loyal Reardon daughter.

Christmas Eve.

I’ve let myself be seduced by skyscrapers and fine dining, by a stunning crepe gown and the force of nature that is Gage Rider. I shouldn’t have any of this. This is the very opposite of what I deserve.

Of all people, Gage should understand we’ve made a mistake. He has the same memories I do. He survived the same Christmas Eve that destroyed me.