Just as I’m about to head over to see how Robin’s doing, my assigned stylist makes me pull off my shirt, and my tuxedo jacket. I can’t understand what they’re going on about. Worse, now I’m wondering if something is wrong.

With a flurry of an intelligible French-language-WTF, they’ve returned me into the styling chair and I realize they’re trying to do something with my hair. They’ve put me under the hair-cut sheet thing they put over your shoulders and torso when you get a haircut. I listen carefully and through his thick accent I think he says I need a sharper, more lined and edged haircut. Parce-que, there izz something with Robin’s new look that’s happening right now across zee-hallway.

I sigh, and submit to what they’re doing, because I’ve learned on red-carpet nights it’s much easier to submit than to argue, but when one of the hair dudes pulls out the clippers and pulls off the guard that keeps the length of the hair in the back long and looks like he’s going to shave my head, I put my hands on my head and jump out of the chair. “Hold up. Dude.”

“Monsieur Royce. Do not panic.” The stylist smiles, turning off the buzzing clippers. “I thought—la mademoiselle Clara told me that you were aware of what we are doing.”

“Clara?” I frown. “She hasn’t spoken to me all day.”

The man looks confused and pulls out his phone. “But that is impossible. She told me zisss-isss your idea. You and your beautiful wife wanted a different look. One zat-matches zee clothing? Non? This-short-hair-cutting is what you are both going to do for zee-awards ceremony?” He flourishes his hands in to the air. “To be dramatic, and make the-big-splash, non? Ça-va, être très-fashionable? It will take but a moment for you to cut zee-hair shorter for you, but for your wife, it will be extreme. And, we have time because it will take longer to cut Robin’s hair off. Oh, how zee-effect-will turn out jolie. I told Clara we must be careful with Robin because she such zee-curls of zee hair, so we must be careful or it could not be beautiful. I told Clara this look works best with le-straight hair.” He holds out his phone and shows me a photo of a man with a head that’s nearly shaved, and then he scrolls his thumb to a high-fashion model girl with her eyes closed.

She’s got more smudged smoky-makeup on her eyes than I’ve ever seen, and her eyes have been paired with bright pink painted-on eye liner slashes, as well as some old-school David Bowie pink rouge on her cheeks. But…holy-hell-no her hair is cut down to one inch long, and it’s all over and spiked!

“Oh f-heck-no. No. This is not right. You’re doing that to Robin’s hair?” I start tugging at the cape around my neck.

“Zat-is-zee-directions we’ve been given. Oui. Oui.” He points to the door. “They are working on zee-transformation de-Robin now. Maybe he izz-already finished. Oui?”

“Well stop him!”

Panicking, I push past the guy, throwing the haircutting cape to the ground, but before I’m even out the door, I’m shouting in the direction of the room where Robin’s been getting ready, “Robin! Robin! Don’t let them—open-up. Robin!”

Not even caring that people from the entourage are peeking out of their suites, I skid to a halt and pound on door to our hotel suite. “Robin! Christ. Robin. Open the door.”

* * *

“Royce. Are you okay? What?” The door swings open and she’s there, standing in this dress that blows my mind because it’s more skin than dress. I’m momentarily stunned because I’m registering how she’s all legs and soft-skinned—skin—skin—skin! That I forget that I’ve come here for because, legs—legs—what the heck is that slit going all the way to her waist and how does the front of it cut down her middle like that, and what kind of undergarment is covering her—her— holy shit! This dress…

I’m searching for words but as I get my bearings my eyes go to her furrowed brow and up to the top of her head and like a moron, I shout out only, “Hair,” like my mind remembers my damn goal of saving her hair just as I’m letting myself breathe because…holy shit again, Her hair! It’s all there. And it’s fine.

The slay-me beautiful curls I love haven’t been cut off like I’d feared.

Instead, all has all been straightened and it’s so long now, that it’s halfway down her backside, which is….wow. That’s because the backside of the dress is the only place where there is actual fabric on the gown—so all eyes go there. And that’s because it’s so tight that it seems as though someone painted the dress onto her!

But I hardly have time to register that either, because she’s turned back to me, and I can’t take my eyes off of her belly button. Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her belly button before…like not once, and…I…holy shit.

It’s adorable and hot and...fuck my life! Is this is the same Robin who wears the hoodie to bed?

My…wife.

Not my wife.

Not even my girlfriend.

But I want her to be both. Girlfriend Wife. Everything.

My eyes travel over her form again blood the blood have rushed to where it shouldn’t—where it kills—where I hope it kills me dead right now—and, forever. Please.

I want her. Want her to be my girlfriend. Wish she could be my real wife despite all of the obstacles between us, and holy-shit right now I want to do everything…with her…that body, hell what I could do with that belly button alone…and someone help me—that dress. It would take two tugs to get it to pop right off of her.

Calm. The. Fuck. Down.

“Don’t you like the hair?” Her brow furrows more and her shoulders droop. “I can go right back in and do your original plan of cutting it. I just thought—I’d try this, because…I…”

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Robin. Holy shit…no,” are the only words I’m able to say at first because, yep. I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating in front of her. And I swear my knees are buckling. That or the very devil himself has slammed the back of my legs with a crowbar, and now he is tugging me down through the floor straight into hell and laughing his ass off because he and I both know that’s where I belong after where my thoughts just went.

For my next attempt at coherent thoughts, I manage to stutter out, “I-I thought they were going to cut your hair and I was so scared. And…holy shit, Robin,” I say again. “You’re so beautiful right how I can’t—even process. I don’t know what I’m trying to say at all, because I can’t seem to find a place to settle my eyes that’s not inappropriate.”

Not understanding my extreme torment, she laughs and answers, “Right? I’m literally naked.”

Making things worse, the damn girl pulls in a huge breath of what sounds like relief, which literally makes all of her curves move and stretch the dress in impossible, horrible wonderful ways across her breasts and the whole time I’m staring and thinking and I suck, but yes, I’m hoping that—it’s going to fall off all the way, but it doesn’t, and then, damn her again, she spins to show me the back! The deep cut V in the back matches the deep cut in the front, meaning it also goes way-too-far down, which is why I have to grip the sides of the door frame to hold myself up while I stare at it. “They had to put little sticky things on my skin so it won’t move and reveal things like the top of my butt crack and…” She turns back places her hands directly over her breasts which nearly brings me to my knees, and she winks as she adds in a laughing whisper, “I’ve even got these insane things stuck on these babies.” She makes her fingers do flash-pointing over her nipples and wiggles her brows at me like this is all funny, normal and okay to talk about with me! “You know, so in case…it gets cold and they go…pop.” She flushes, then and suddenly her eyes are on my bare chest like she’s realized I’m only half dressed.

When I don’t answer she adds, “What? Too much info? I…” her eyes skim my chest again and she points at my nipples. “I see you don’t have to wear them…I’d heard about stars wearing them, I guess I just never thought it would ever be…uh…me…so…did you know about them? Sorry to ruin the mystery of all female red-carpet beauty…or…whatever.”

“Yes. I knew about them.” I’m choking. Swallowing my heart down hard so it can go all the way back where it belongs. But to pull it off, I think I’ve just damaged half of my esophagus.

“They’re funny that’s all, huh?” She adds, suddenly sounding as awkward and as cute as hell. “Um…” Her eyes meet mine and flood with doubt. “Yeah. So. Sorry for the info dump about my body—parts. I’m…nervous.”

“No. Not at all,” is all I manage to get out, as my throat goes too dry to find any more words, while my heartbeat betrays me by coming right back up and nearly explodes my temples. Forget waiting for the devil to finish me off. I’m dead. I’m dead. Dead, because I swear I’m about to bust a nut in my pants like an out-of-control eighth grader. At least my tuxedo pants are loose and pleated. And black.

Robin points at my bare chest again. “Is..is…t-t-that what you’re wearing? Only pants with no shirt? Wow. Okay. So at least I’m not alone in my nudity. This is going to be one insane red carpet.” Suddenly I get that Robin is very much pretending not to look at my abs, my chest and my shoulder muscles, just how I’m working so damn hard to keep my eyes only on her face, because that is all I can handle. But her, checking me out, kills me dead a second time, because I love that she’s looking…I love how she’s looking, and then staring, and licking her lips, then not looking again, and of course she’s blushing some…

“I should…go back and finish getting dressed, huh?” I blurt out. Because I should go back and get the hell out of here. “I had my stuff off because I think the stylist was about to shave my damn head, all while he’d implied that they were smack in the middle of cutting your hair short to match me.”

“They were going to cut it, and I was going to do it, but…” She frowns. “Didn’t you tell them to do it? Clara said you had this idea that we were going to make a splash and that we had to match.”

“Splash is the same word my stylist used. Make-zee-splash.” I shake my head.

“Well, Clara said this was a very big deal and it was time for me to finally do things right. It is true that I needed to stop being a whiner, but when the hair stylist brought out the big scissors, I freaked. Even worse. I actually cried on the guy.”

I breathe out a huge sigh, and add, “Had he done it, I would have cried on the guy, too. Then killed him.”

She smiles up at me, adding, “Luckily the guy felt bad about my tears, and we called up someone who spoke English and French which really helped. Together they helped me come up with a better plan for my hair that would keep it long and still have an equally wow-effect.” She flips her hair to the side, making it cascade all around her shoulders. “I’m pretty thrilled with the result, because it hides the dress some. And the press has never seen it straightened so I thought it might be enough?”

Thankfully the images of Robin crying over this has cooled my jets and turned me back into a nice-guy instead of a half-brained, penis driven idiot.

“Robin. Again…you’re just…breathtaking.” I say. “Please excuse me stuttering there when I first slammed in here, but I was not prepared for you to look like this. Not one bit. And I think they’ve finally succeeded in making you look older. Or at least finally old enough to be married.”

“Really?”

“Hell yes, really.” Her smile widens with pleasure as I step back a little, working to keep my eyes trained on hers only and away from that extra skin as I add in a little head shake. “I only need to get used to this look, if it is at all possible so hold while I pause to thank God that I didn’t have to see you with the cameras rolling first, because I would have lost it.”

Smiling like she’s pleased at my comments, she turns and pulls at the dress so the slit up the side cracks open. “Well, in that case, you will need to prepare to hold me up all night because I’ve been ordered to wear these Champagne-glass heels. Look at these things. You’re going to also have to hold my arm every time I move in them. You might even have to walk for me. Luckily, the base is not a pointy stiletto, rather it has this round wine-glass bottom, which helps, but one wrong move and I topple sideways.” She holds one foot up so I can see what she’s talking about.

“Shit.” Is all that I mutter, because I’m not seeing any heels…I’m only seeing straps going over sexy feet, and one narrow strap that’s around her ankle, which is really sexy, because it’s made me notice how slim her ankles are, as well as…every curve of those...legs, legs legs!

Suddenly my mind is spinning-splintering with whacked thoughts like…where in the hell did she get those legs? Has she has them the whole time? Oh wait. I know where they came from—the fucking new-sexy-belly-button store. That’s probably where.

“What? You don’t like them?” She asks, and I realize I’ve been shaking my head over and over again, and possibly I’ve been frowning. “Well too bad. I’ve got no other choices thanks to the Champagne sponsorship, and FYI, these are supposed to be works of art so do not call then shoes. Call them art or you’ll insult the most famous shoe-designer in the world and Clara will yell at you.”

“Art.” I parrot out.

“You’re making me more nervous, because you’re staring too long. I know I look insane…but Clara said, to just pretend it’s all a costume. So, try to do that, would you? This is a costume.”

“Yes. Yes. I will, but Robin. You don’t look insane. You’re going to blow this awards ceremony away, and you’re going to be listed as best-dressed all over the place.”

“Well, that’s the goal, right?” She grimaces, clearly not believing me as I go on. “As for my costume, they’ve given me a cape to wear over the tux stuff. It’s very French, and sadly for me, very in fashion this year which is why I have to wear it. But, as soon as the red-carpet photographs are finished, you can pretend to be cold, and I will swirl it around and onto your shoulders very dramatically, all while telling everyone it’s to keep you warm. Something about my wife always being cold, and then you can hide in it. It exactly matches the dress, so I think it will look great for the remainder of the night. Do you want that? ”

“Oh. You and a cape. Yes… I want…that.” She smiles, and I can tell she’s nearly about to laugh or something. Her eyes have gone down my chest again and then creep back up, very slowly. When finally her gaze meets mine, suddenly her cheeks burn bright red. “Uh…could you please go get some clothes because um…” She blinks. “Because I probably need to get used to you…in your costume too, in case it’s as jaw dropping as mine was for you…so…yeah. Go. And stuff.” She rubs her temples. “I’m feeling a little light headed or something because I didn’t eat dinner. Maybe while you’re doing that I’ll just go have a little snack.”

She points distractedly to her dressing room door, but once again, I’d swear her eyes are locked onto my abs—or worse—maybe she’s noticing that her staring at me is making the blood rush all over again, and this time the effect of that is popping the plant pleats.

Thankfully I don’t have to turn away like a freak, because right then—like I’ve embarrassed her—or like she thinks she’s just embarrassed herself, she turns away first, saying, “See you soon. Doing the finishing touches, meet me back here?”

* * *

“Yeah…” I call out, but she’s moved so quickly away from me that her newly straightened hair flashes like a frozen waterfall in the light. A mass of the bone-straight cascade, flows over the ass that I’d promised myself to not look at again, but now that she’s not facing me, how in the hell can I not look? And worse? Some of the shorter tips of that glistening hair settle at her bare waist…and they are skimming just where I want my hands to be right now.

Thankfully the door to the suite closes between us, because I’d almost reached out let my hands go where they I shouldn’t. And when Robin and I are alone, and I do shit like that, things get out of control. But once we’re in public and the cameras are rolling so I’ll be forced to check myself, I’m going to examine every inch of how that dress is staying on her body. I’m going to trail my fingers all over every bit of the skin that I’ve never seen or touched before, too. I’m realizing this is probably my only and last chance to do that. We’re down to the last days here, and I think this will be our last major public appearance that won’t have her father in tow. Soon she probably won’t be sharing hotel suites with me anymore, and that skin won’t be near me or available to touch, the smile not mine to steal kisses off of whenever I want either. And that hair…that hair…damn-me, how I will miss the feel of her hair curling around my finger whenever I want…

Why in the hell did Clara think she could direct Robin to cut off her hair?

Pissed off now, I stalk back into my suite managing to feign a calm expression for the waiting stylists and say, “We are good. All is fine.”

They return to finishing the final trims at the edges of my hair, then help me put my shirt and cufflinks back on. While they run around trying to do my tie just right and quickly stitch some seams at the back of tux jacket I’ve been getting angrier and angrier thinking about Clara’s styling plan.

Thinking about Clara and how she sucks—wondering how this damn girl that none of us really like, gets to be stuck inside of our inner circle for this whole summer. Wondering if I should fire her ass, but then knowing I can’t, because of how much we all love her mother. It’s only a few more weeks and then, thankfully the damn girl will be back to her university. And then we can make sure she never works for us again.

I know for a fact that Clara understood just how much I love Robin’s hair. I’d talked to her about those beautiful, long curls with her just yesterday. And, hell, I think I’d even mentioned them to her the day before that. Did she try to chop it on purpose—for malicious reasons? I start to remember all of the crappy, ugly, slightly trashy and badly fitting outfits she’s sent up to Robin. Ones Robin had ‘edited’ in her way, by adding in her own pieces, or toning down some of the ‘looks’ before we’d decided to dress ourselves. And then I remember all of the snide comments Clara’s made to Robin while dressing her—about how she’s kind of low class, and that she’s ignorant and needs to fit in with us better. Maybe Clara wanted to cut Robin’s hair so Robin would wake up tomorrow and feel less beautiful and less confident. Shit…maybe this delusional, jealous girl had this idea I would wake up and not think Robin is beautiful anymore.

My chest constricts. I worry and wonder that if some of Robin’s self-doubt is partially centered around all of these snide things Clara has said to her. And shit…what does she say to Robin when I’m not around? Could it be worse than what I’ve heard her say to Robin’s face?

Probably. Yes. I’m sure of it. I should throw her out of this hotel on her ass right now. But we’re late to the event, and it’s possible half of this mind-spinning I’m having is just me, over worrying and over analyzing. Either way, Clara will never be left alone with Robin again, and she’s about to be reassigned to style Hunter and Vere, because she is Vere’s college roommate, after all.

Besides, I learned long ago nothing good comes from making an enemy of a mean-girl-psycho like Clara. If I dump her out of our inner circle without warning how I want to, then I won’t be able to keep an eye on her bullshit, and it’s possible later on we can use her crazy to our advantage…

I decide to at least out Clara to Vere and tell her my thoughts. Then we will tell Clara’s mother how we want her to move to another couple, and from there we will all, at least be on high-alert and everyone will work hard to deflect her away from Robin. I will also make sure Clara knows that I’m pissed as hell before we leave for the show tonight. That girl deserves, at least, to lose some sleep over this, as I’m sure Robin has lost sleep wondering if she’s good enough.

When they’re done dressing me, I spin making the cape flare and then I practice my ‘place the cape’ on my wife move in the mirror, getting some advice from the stylist how to look like a champ as to how to settle it on to Robin without messing up her look.

When I’m all set I almost laugh at myself in the mirror. The purple black velvet backed cape is gorgeously made, and it’s cool, but it’s ridiculous. It’s also so long that it goes nearly to my ankles. Which means on Robin it’s going to drag along the red carpet like a black-bridal train once I get it onto her.

I grin in the mirror again, thinking: the photos of her in this…with that hair… this night will be epic.

Epic.