The Ex (The Boss 4)

I had to concede that I had not. “No.”

“Well, neither have I, so we don’t know what we’ll need, do we?” She looked up as she tucked the flap of her purse back in place. “Good morning, Neil.”

He raised his coffee cup. “Rebecca.”

“Sweatpants again, then?” She punctuated her sentence with a faint grimace and a tilt of her head before turning to me. “So, shall we?”

I gave Neil a quick kiss, and he wrapped an arm around my waist for a squeeze. “Have a good time,” he said, giving me a peck on the ear before he released me.

After we’d gone out the door, I hissed, “Could you stop it about the sweatpants?”

She raised her hands and let them flop on her wrists. “I’m supposed to see someone just giving up on real pants and not say anything about it?”

“The man started like two magazines and ran a global med

ia empire for twenty-five years. Give him a break.” When I said it aloud, that didn’t sound like a very long time, but it wasn’t like that twenty-five years had been a constant walk in the park. “Besides, he almost died. If he wanted to wear clown shoes every day, I wouldn’t care, just as long as he’s alive.”

Tony had parked the car across the driveway’s wide, round end, and he opened the door for us as we approached. “Good morning, ladies.”

Mom laughed him off, her face blushing bright red. That was…interesting. I smirked to myself and went around the car to get in, and let Tony give Mom the princess treatment.

As we drove into the city, Mom’s excitement slowly grew. She was practically bouncing by the time we pulled up to the curb. To see her radiating such happy anticipation over my wedding, the wedding she’d been against for so long, made my eyes wet. I blinked back my tears and opened the door. “Come on. You get to meet a real New York fashion designer.”

When I’d first picked a designer for my custom, one-of-a-kind dress, I’d had many options. Being engaged to a billionaire opened a lot of doors. That billionaire owning the fashion magazine knocked on a lot more. But it was my status as co-editor-in-chief of Mode that had brought Pia Malik’s name to my ears. She wasn’t a big star, but she would be, someday. We’d just run a feature spread showcasing her spring collection, and I’d ended up buying almost every piece.

Pia shared a studio with three other designers on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Queens. We rang the buzzer, and Deja answered the door.

“Hey there, late to your own fitting,” she said, giving me a huge, celebratory hug. “I cannot wait. This bitch won’t let us see the dress until you do.”

“Bitch yourself,” Pia said with a laugh. She and Deja moved in similar social circles, which was how she’d come to our attention as a designer in the first place. Pia’s long, straight hair swung behind her in a shimmering curtain of jet-black silk. Her makeup was minimal as always, sharp slashes of eyeliner accentuating her slightly up-tilted eyes, just a hint of Smashbox Soft Lights on her creamy brown skin. She was the kind of beautiful that made you disappointed in yourself, no matter how good-looking you might be. And I didn’t think I was a slouch in the looks department.

She grinned at me and said, “Are you ready to see it?”

I cast a nervous glance at Deja then frowned. “Where’s Holli?”

“She’s waiting back here,” Pia said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Come on, I can’t wait to show you this.”

The studio was as open plan as it could get, with each designer taking a third of the warehouse floor. Long, rectangular windows lit the bright white space with natural sunlight. In Pia’s corner, an old doctor’s office privacy screen was wheeled center stage, and in front of it sat Holli, in menacing guard mode.

“Nobody peeked, then?” Pia asked, startling her.

Holli jumped up and slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Not a soul. I protected your dress, Sophie. You’re going to be the first to see it. Even if I had to tackle Deja to the floor.”

“Tackle? You make it sound so dramatic. Restrain is the word I would have chosen.” She stood beside my mom and me in front of the screen, and Holli flanked me on the other side.

“Okay, Sophie,” Pia warned. “Here it is.”

I gripped Holli and Deja’s hands and squeezed my eyes shut as Pia rolled the screen away. I heard Deja’s indrawn gasp and blinked my eyes open again. My heart jerked in my chest; I felt my pulse in my eyes.

There it was. The gown I was going to walk down the aisle in. The dress that I would be wearing in the very first moments of my marriage to Neil.

It was unbelievably gorgeous.

Beside me, my mom whispered, “Sophie…is it supposed to be black?”

“Well, she sure as hell can’t wear white, I’ll tell you that for free,” Holli reminded her quietly, and Mom made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes.

I couldn’t speak. The dress was so beautiful. The bodice was sleek, close fitting tan silk that shimmered like liquid pearl beneath an elaborate black lace overlay that would accentuate my slim waist and give the illusion of a much more generous bust than I actually have. The princess neckline rose into a delicate caplet strap at one shoulder, and the full skirt dripped with layers of scalloped black lace. I walked slowly around it, afraid to touch.