Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Arrangement,” she says with a raised eyebrow.
Her use of the word reminds me of how much has changed since then. A month ago, I would never have dreamed I’d be warming Nico’s bed. And coming over and over again with his name on my lips.
“Yes, it was all a bit overwhelming, and I’m sorry if I upset you.”
She stiffens and looks indignant, not meeting my eyes. But I get the feeling this is her accepting my apology.
“Like I said, the stylist will be here. Best you take a shower.” She turns to walk out but stops at the door. She doesn’t fully turn back to look at me but offers me her profile. “You like your coffee black with no sugar, right?”
I smile. Anastacia’s arctic frost is beginning to thaw. “Yes.”
She gives me a short, curt nod and leaves the room.
“Well, if my eyes don’t betray me!” I exclaim when I see the stylist walking into Nico’s large lounge room. “LaLa La Trobe!”
I leap off the couch to hug my old friend.
“The one and only,” he replies, his deep, smoky voice full of affection as he wraps his arms around me. I squeeze my arms around his large frame, happy to see him.
We break our embrace, and he holds me at arm’s length so he can get a good look at me. “Bella Isle Ciccula, always the belle of the ball. You look stunning as always.”
I’ve known LaLa since I was in college, and he was an up-and-coming stylist working as a performer at Buster’s. The colorful club was in West Village, and Ari and I used to visit it every Saturday night. We met LaLa and quickly became friends with the six-foot glamour. When Imogen wasn’t on a date, she’d join us, and our little foursome had some wild, wonderful nights forged in cocktails, laughing, and dancing.
Unfortunately, we lost touch when I moved to London.
“You’re the fancy-pants stylist who will make me look like a million bucks?” I beam happily.
“Baby Belle, ain’t nothing I can put you in to make you look a million bucks that you ain’t already doing with that natural beauty of yours.”
LaLa is from Southern Georgia, and I could listen to the sing-song cadence of his deep velvety voice for hours.
I swat him playfully. “There’s the LaLa I know and love. You always were such a charmer. I can’t believe you’re really here.”
“And I still can’t believe you’re the famous Mrs. De Kysa everyone is talking about. When I first heard you’d married that delectable billionaire with those smoldering good looks and all that facial hair, I thought well done, Baby Belle, well done. You married the king.”
Anastacia visibly balks at the reference, which LaLa notices and does a double take.
I hook my arm through his. “Ignore her, she hates me.”
He gasps theatrically. “How could anyone hate my sweet-as-pie Italian cannoli?”
“Poor taste, I guess.” I grin at Anastacia. “But I’m wearing her down.”
This time, she dramatically rolls her eyes at me.
“So what have you brought me today?” I ask, excited because LaLa gets me. He won’t have brought anything vanilla or stuffy with him. It will be colorful and fun.
“Are you ready to be dazzled?” he asks with a mischievous grin.
I clap my hands with excitement. “Yes!”
“Well then, sit down, my sweet cannoli, and let the show begin.”
Grinning from ear to ear, I take a seat next to Anastacia, and when LaLa snaps his fingers, the elevator doors open, and three assistants wheel in clothing racks loaded with outfits of all colors and styles. Behind them, four models strut in, ready to work the imaginary runway in Nico’s living room. Somewhere, music starts playing, and the fun fashion show begins.
Each model parades a new outfit in front of me, twisting and twirling so I can see every detail of the outfit. While LaLa explains in great detail everything about the outfit, from the designer who created it and the fabric used, to what event it should be paired with.
Beside me, Anastacia takes notes, scribbling in her planner.
One model comes out in a long gown with a halter neck and covered in tiny black Swarovski crystals. It’s stunning and makes me think about the black-tie charity auction we’re attending at the Savoy in London tomorrow night. A dress like that would definitely earn me brownie points with my husband.
As if reading my mind, Anastacia leans closer to whisper, “That would be perfect for London.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply. “But it looks very expensive. What’s the budget?”
She looks at me like I spoke to her in Martian and not English. “There is no budget.”
“No budget?”
“No. Budget.”
LaLa leans into my other side. “You married a billionaire, honey.”
When the show is over, I’m surprised to see it’s been going on for more than an hour.
With a clap of his hands, LaLa dismisses the models, and they leave quietly.