11. Prudence
Prudence
There are trousers in four different fabrics. Blouses with buttons and blouses without. And tiny pieces of fabric and lace that I cannot determine the purpose of. Shoes with heels that look as though they’d snap my ankle. Shoes with flat soles. Boots that reach my knee.
A scrap of black lace connected by thin straps catches my attention. I pick it up and turn it over. I hold it against my body—first at my waist, then at my chest. Neither placement seems correct.
The elevator chimes, and I nearly drop the garment when Nicholas breezes into the living room carrying a leather satchel. He wears a cornflower-blue jacket with embroidered lapels and trousers so slim they look painted on.
“Hello, darling bride.” He scans the apartment and sees the chaos I’ve created. His hand flies to his chest. “Oh, sweet mercy. It looks like Bloomingdale’s exploded. We have work to do.”
He drops the bag, crosses to me, and plucks the black lace from my fingers.
“That,” he says, holding it up by one strap, “is a bralette. It goes under your clothes. Against the skin. Supportive yet gorgeous.”
“Under my clothes?”
“Under. Not over, and not around your waist.” He winks. “Although I respect the creativity.”
He scoops up an armful of clothing, sails past me into the bedroom, and begins to organize the wreckage. Garments fly from the bed to the closet with a speed that makes my head spin.
He mutters to himself as he works. “Casual. Smart casual. Evening. Date night. Funeral—god forbid, but preparation is a virtue.” He glances back at me. “Come, come. Stand here. Watch and learn.”
I stand beside him as he works through the closet. He explains each grouping—denim and cotton for daily wear. Blouses and tailored trousers for occasions that require polish. Dresses sorted by formality.
“These are your loungewear pieces.” He gestures to a stack of garments in muted tones—pants that tie at the waist and matching tops. “For home. For comfort. For watching terrible television and eating snacks.”
I do know what television is, and snacks. Ronan and I watched television yesterday evening—a show called Granite Flats—and ate a snack called Cheetos. I enjoyed both very much.
Nicholas pulls out a pad of small colored papers and a pen, and begins sticking notes to hangers and inside shoe boxes. I read them over his shoulder.
This with the brown boots—trust me.
Date night. Pair with gold earrings in velvet box.
Tuesday that feels like Saturday.
I know now that “Tuesday that feels like Saturday” means I can wear it any day.
“Now.” He turns to me with the leather satchel. “Sit.”
I sit on the edge of the bed while Nicholas shapes my hair with a hot tool he calls a curling wand. Then he unzips the bag and produces a collection of small containers, tubes, and brushes that resemble a miniature painter’s kit.
“What is that?”
“Makeup.” He selects a small pot and twists it open. Inside is a cream the color of my own skin. “Women—and men, anyone who feels like it—use these products to enhance their features. Brighten the eyes, define the cheekbones, add color to the lips—that kind of thing.”
“You paint faces?”
He grins broadly. “I am a face-painting genius, and you, my darling, are about to become my masterpiece.”
I hold very still as he works. A soft brush sweeps across my cheekbones. A cool cream touches my eyelids. A pencil traces the line of my lashes, and I have to fight the instinct to flinch.
He talks while he works, narrating each step. Foundation to even the skin. A touch of color on the cheeks—”blush,” he calls it, and a sweep of brown across each lid that makes my eyes look larger. A coat of dark mascara on my lashes that makes them appear twice their length.
“Lips.” He holds up a tube of soft pink. “Open your mouth just a little. Like you’re about to say something scandalous.”
I attempt the expression and he laughs and applies the color with a steady hand.
“Now.” He caps the tube and steps aside. “Look.”
He angles a mirror toward me.
The woman staring back is a stranger.
Her eyes are enormous—deep, luminous brown framed by dark lashes. Her cheekbones catch a warm glow. Her mouth is full and soft, rose-petal pink.
She is beautiful.
I have never before felt beautiful. I have felt dirty, sinful, a vessel of temptation. Not beautiful. Never beautiful.
My vision blurs.
“Oh, no no no.” Nicholas crouches beside me, his hands hovering near my shoulders.
“No tears. I used waterproof mascara, but there are limits.” His voice is gentle beneath the humor.
“Prudence. Listen to me. Everything I put on your face—it’s not creating anything new.
It’s just pointing at what was already there. ”
I press my knuckles against my mouth and breathe until the sting fades.
“Now then.” He rises and claps his hands. “Ronan mentioned a party tonight. Which means we need—”
“The sunset dress,” I tell him.
“The sunset dress.”
He returns to the closet and selects the dress that shifts between coral and burnt orange depending on how it catches the light. He pairs it with brown ankle boots that have a low, sturdy heel, and gold earrings that dangle in delicate drops.
I don all the chosen garments.
Nicholas tugs the hem, adjusts the neckline, and steps back to survey his work.
His whole face brightens. He presses both palms flat against his own sternum.
“Ronan O’Rourke is going to swallow his own tongue.” He steers me toward the floor-length mirror. “Go on. Look.”
I do not recognize myself.
My own reflection is still holding me captive when the elevator chimes.
Moments later, Ronan stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. His hair is pushed back from his face. He looks as polished as the first time I saw him, when he strode across the yard at the Enclave.
He stops.
His mouth opens a fraction. His gaze travels from my boots up the line of the dress to my face, and stays there. He does not blink.
“Oh, he’s broken,” Nicholas murmurs quietly from behind me. “Mission accomplished.”
“You’re stunning.” Ronan’s voice comes out rough, like gravel.
The word stunning lands in the center of my sternum and radiates outward like a pebble dropped into still water.
“Nicholas did it all,” I manage.
“Nicholas dressed you. The rest is all you,” Nicholas clarifies.
Ronan has not moved from his spot, and his gaze has not left my face.
Nicholas gathers his leather bag, slings it over his shoulder, and pats Ronan on the arm as he passes. I catch the words he murmurs on his way toward the elevator, “You’re welcome, you absolute brute.”
The elevator doors close behind him, and Ronan and I are alone.
He crosses the room and stops in front of me. His hand rises to my jaw—a feather touch, his thumb tracing the line Nicholas defined with blush.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I’m nervous,” I tell him, because I am learning that honesty with this man does not result in punishment.
“Don’t be. You’re an O’Rourke now.”
The possessiveness in those four words sends a flush of heat rushing through my veins.
He offers his arm. I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, and his free hand covers mine.
We walk to the elevator together. The doors slide open. We step inside, and our reflections appear in the mirrored walls—arm in arm, Ronan’s hand over mine.
And I am shocked to realize we look as though we belong together.