Maggie
By six-fifteen, Jules has me parked on a stool in front of my bedroom mirror while he stands behind me with a curling wand in one hand and entirely too much authority for someone who doesn’t live here.
My bed is covered in dresses I’ve already rejected. There’s a navy dress at the foot of the bed, a pale green one twisted near the pillows, and a red one sliding halfway to the floor like it’s trying to escape. A single black heel is tipped over in the middle of everything, abandoned mid-decision.
I watch him in the mirror as he works, sectioning my hair like a pro and wrapping a piece around the wand.
“Honey, you are not backing out,” he says, not even looking at me.
“I didn’t say I was backing out.”
“You didn’t have to. I can tell.” He lets a curl drop and grabs another piece of hair. “You get that look when you’re about to make a bad decision in the name of responsibility.”
“This is a responsible decision,” I say, even though my stomach is doing a tumbling routine I didn’t sign up for.
“You’ve changed dresses three times.”
“Four,” I mutter.
“Four,” he repeats, like he’s adding it to a file. “And rejected each one for a different reason, none of which made sense.”
I lift my hands in front of me, then drop them again so I don’t mess up what he’s doing. “The green one was too much.”
“It was fine.”
“The navy one was too plain.”
“It was also fine.”
“And the black one—”
“Is the one you’re wearing,” he interrupts, giving my hair a quick twist before letting it fall. “And for the record, it’s the right choice.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “You say that like there was ever a world where you were going to let me wear anything else.”
“There wasn’t.” He smirks and grabs another section of hair. “With a man like Alexei, you don’t show up looking like you grabbed the first clean thing in your closet and hoped for the best.”
I fidget on the stool, the fabric of the black dress hugging a little closer than I’m used to. “I’m not trying to impress him.”
“Maggie.”
“I’m not,” I insist, then pause. “Not entirely.”
He hums under his breath like that tells him everything he needs to know.
“Look at me,” he says, one hand on his hip.
“I am looking at you.”
“Not like that.” He taps my chin and turns my face back to the mirror. “You look good. You know you look good. Stop actin’ like that’s a problem.”
I study my reflection, this version of me, with my hair down in loose curls, the neckline of the dress dipping just low enough to show some cleavage, and the simple gold hoops shimmering in the light as I move.
“I look like I’m tryin’ too hard,” I say.
“You are tryin’,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You curled your hair, put on heels, and turned down every dress I brought over. Be serious.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” His tone eases. “You’re worried he’ll see it.”
I press my lips together, then let out a breath. “He already sees too much.”
“Good,” Jules says. “Then you don’t have to pretend.”
“Then why am I sweating?” I mutter, lifting both hands for emphasis. “It’s Savannah in spring, not July in hell.”
He laughs quietly. “Because you’re goin’ to a private estate for dinner with a man who looks like he should come with armed security and a liability waiver.”
“He does come with armed security.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my arm.
“There,” he says, stepping back to check his work. “Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You were absolutely about to touch it.”
I laugh quietly but keep my hands still, watching the curls fall into place.
I close my eyes for a second, exhale, then open them again. I stand and lean closer to the mirror, checking my lipstick. My hand isn’t shaking exactly, but it isn’t as calm as I’d prefer. I blot once and tilt my head, taking in the full picture.
“No,” Jules says from behind me.
I blink at his reflection. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face did all the work.” He steps closer, looks me over, and adjusts one of my shoulder straps. “And no, you are not overdressed.”
“I wasn’t about to say that.”
He gives me a look.
I sigh. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
“Of course you were.” His mouth curves in a knowing smile as he steps back, folding his arms. “Maggie, honey, this man is sending a car.”
“That doesn’t mean I need to get all gussied up like I’m headed to a gala.”
“No, but it does mean you’re not going to show up in a sundress and sandals like you’re headed to Sunday lunch with your mama.” He purses his lips, eyeing me like he’s already won the argument. “With a man like Alexei, you can’t be overdressed. You can only be underprepared.”
I let out a breath that sounds more dramatic than it should. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s very helpful,” he says, tilting his head. “Do you at least have condoms in your purse?”
I whip around so fast I nearly knock his elbow. “I’m sorry, what now?”
“I’m asking a valid question.”
“I most certainly do not,” I say, staring at him. “And I am not sleepin’ with Alexei.”
Jules tries not to laugh but can’t help it. “Magnolia Hayes.” He looks me over slowly. “With a man that looks like dessert, you should always be prepared to say yes.”
My mouth falls open. “Lord have mercy, you’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re welcome,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself.
He steps back studying me. I know that look. He’s checking details, hair, hemline, shoes, and whether I’m about to unravel in a dress he had to talk me into ten minutes ago.
“You’re gorgeous as hell,” he says, and because it’s Jules, and because he doesn’t hand out compliments like parade candy, it hits me square in the chest. “Annoyingly so, actually. If I were less secure, I’d take issue with it.”
I laugh and run my fingers over the fabric at my waist. “Feels like I’m playin’ dress-up, if I’m honest.”
Jules steps closer, his teasing fading a little. “You’re not,” he says, fixing my hair over my shoulder. “You just forgot what it looks like when you let yourself have a moment.”
He meets my eyes in the mirror. “And for the record, if he doesn’t lose his mind when he sees you, I will personally revoke his privileges.”
Heat climbs up my neck, and I press my lips together, shaking my head like that might hide my smile. “You’re too much,” I mutter.
I move past him into the living room, needing a little space from my own reflection.
My apartment looks better than it has any right to for a weeknight.
I straightened the throw blanket on the sofa twice.
I put the dishes away. I even wiped down the kitchen counter, although nobody is coming in here except Jules, and he’s seen me eat cereal over the sink in an old shelter T-shirt with cat hair stuck to it.
The black dress hugs my hips as I walk across the room, and I smooth the fabric again.
My heels click lightly on the floor. Outside, the evening has gone dusky and blue, the last bit of light clinging to the edges of the neighboring buildings.
Somewhere down the street, a car door slams, and farther off, I can hear someone’s dog barking like they’ve got a vendetta against the moon.
Jules follows, stopping by the sofa where he places my discarded dress options in a heap. “For the record,” he says, “I support this.”
I squint at him. “What, exactly, do you support?”
He gestures at me, then at the window, like Alexei’s estate could be right outside.
“This. You puttin’ on a dress. Goin’ somewhere that isn’t the shelter, the diner, or this apartment.
You sittin’ down to eat a meal that didn’t come out of a microwave or a paper sack while a frighteningly attractive man stares at you across the table. ”
I spray the perfume once into the air and step through it. “That’s a very specific picture.”
“It’s also my gift.”
I laugh again and lean against the counter. Having him here helps. I’m still nervous, but it’s less wild now and more like a low vibration under my skin.
My phone is on the counter next to the car keys I won’t need, since Alexei didn’t ask whether I wanted the address or preferred to drive myself.
He just sent a car. That’s been on my mind all afternoon.
No message asking what worked for me. No “see you at seven.” Just a car, a driver, and the expectation I’d get in.
And the worst part is, I let him decide.
No, that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that I liked it.
I push away from the counter and walk to the window, parting the curtain with two fingers. The street below glows with porch lights and fading shadows. My stomach flips all over again.
“Don’t tell me you’re peekin’ for the car,” Jules says behind me.
“I’m not peekin’.”
“You’re peekin’ with conviction.”
I let the curtain fall and turn back around. “What if this is weird?”
“It is weird,” he says right away. “It’s a private dinner at a private estate with a man who looks like he could bury a body without wrinkling his shirt. Weird is already in the room.”
“That’s not helpin’ either.”
He walks over and straightens one of my curls where it’s fallen too far across my face. “Maggie.”
The way he says my name makes me look him square in the eyes.
“You know how to leave,” he says. “You know how to say no. You know how to call me, and I will come get you with zero questions and maximal judgment. You are not a girl gettin’ swept into a fairy tale.
You are Magnolia Hayes from Savannah, Georgia, owner of Second Chance Savannah, survivor of a mop bucket attack, and fully capable of handling one hot Russian man at dinner. ”
That pulls a warm laugh out of me. “You make me sound insane.”
“No,” he says, flashing his best smile. “I make you sound hot and competent. There’s a difference.”
A knock on the apartment door cuts through the room. Every muscle in me tightens.
Jules’s brows lift. “Well?”
I look at the door, then at him.
He smirks. “Showtime.”
“Oh, my word.”