I've been at work for six hours and twenty-seven minutes, and Roman hasn't said a word to me.Counting the minutes is a little obsessive, I know. But I sent off the final version of my Emilia interview this morning, and I've had a hard time concentrating on my work ever since. I know we didn't exactly end things on a good foot yesterday, but there's no reason for him to ignore me now. He's walked past my cubicle half a dozen times today - not that I've counted - and he hasn't even acknowledged me.I lean and look around the edge of my cubicle. I can just make him out through the blinds on the conference room window. He's bent over his laptop, and he's got a headset in his ear. He appears to be on a call. After a couple of minutes, he starts shaking his head violently, as if arguing with the person on the other end of the line. He says something to his assistant, and the young man jumps up and dashes out.Maybe it's for the best that he's ignoring me. It doesn't look like he's in a p

Ouch. That was blunt. I want to assure Roman that I wasn't suggesting he should treat me like a girlfriend, but I'm having trouble moving my tongue right now. So I keep moving through the dresses, still refusing to look him in the eyes. Roman, however, isn't finished."We live in a town and work in an industry where appearances matter," he says. "And I don't just mean attractiveness. I mean that simple things - like what color you wear - can make a huge difference in how people see you. A man is perceived differently depending on whether he walks into a business meeting in a blue shirt or a red shirt. A pop star is perceived differently if she arrives at an awards show in an orange dress than if she arrives in a white dress. Different colors suggest different things to our subconscious minds. A smart person uses that knowledge to her advantage."I've found another black dress that I think is lovely, but I don't bother asking him what he thinks. He's right - I can't blend in. Not on S

Roman is still standing in front of me. Still silent. What could he possibly have to say to me that he couldn't say in front of the clerk? Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to share."Don't you like it?" I ask, my voice little more than a whisper. I want to shout at him, I don't care if you don't! I love it!. I never want to take it off again! But I want to hear his honest thoughts first. Besides, he's the one with the Celebrity Spark credit card. What I think doesn't really matter in the end."Come," he says after a moment. "Let's look in the mirror." He takes my arm and guides me over to a large three-way mirror just past the room where I was changing. His hands brush against my bare arms as he positions me in front of it, and then he takes a step back."What do you see?" he asks."I've already looked at myself," I say, confused. "I want to know what you think."He steps forward again, and now he's standing right behind me, looking over my shoulder at the mirror,

Roman's words echo in the air between us: "Do you want it?"I let out a shaky breath. Yes. Yes, I want it. But I can't seem to say even that. After a couple of seconds, I only manage to echo, "It.""The dress." His voice is rough.For a moment, I don't understand. "Hm?""Do you want the dress?"Oh. When he said "it," he meant the dress, not... not...I'm speechless. And still trembling, still tight and nervous and flushed from head to toe."Y-yes," I finally manage. "I want the dress.""Good." The word is like a caress."That... that settles it, then," I say, because I can't seem to do anything but reiterate it to myself over and over again. "This is the dress." He meant the dress, the dress, the dress..."Yes. This is most definitely the dress."There's something in his voice - an appreciation, maybe - that makes me look up, to seek his eyes out in the reflection in front of us. I've spent most of the conversation watching his hand, fixated on the movements of his finger an

Twenty-three minutes later, I'm at Marietta's.Well... sort of.As a matter of fact, I'm outside Marietta's, at the back of the longest line ever. I can count sixty people in front of me from where I'm standing. I can't even see the entrance to the place.I try not to get discouraged as the minutes tick by. This might not be how I planned on spending my Tuesday night, but A, at least it's helping me keep my mind off of the thing-that-happened-last-night, and B, I figure the universe has to be throwing me a bone. I mean, getting the chance to talk to Dante Fontaine was insane on its own. But two Fontaines in less than a week? I guess the higher power figures I deserve a break. Or maybe my guardian angel just wants me to keep my job.Assuming it is Raphael my brother saw, of course. I've called Matt three times since I got here - he managed to get in, so maybe he can get me past this line - but he hasn't answered. He probably can't hear his phone over the music. Even out here, I can