Thank baby chupacabras everywhere, it worked—the dress definitely worked.
Rosie had found the old wedding gown in a thrift store, and when she purchased it in all its cream-and-ivory glory, she wasn’t sure what could be done with it to make it into an appropriate costume, but it now looked nothing like the wedding dress she’d found.
A slow grin tugged at her lips. The gown was made of silk with nylon lining, enabling the seamstress to work her magic. It was dyed a crimson red and the beaded detail from the bodice had been removed, dyed black, and used as lacy trim around the collar of the dress, the edges of the loose, flowing sleeves, and along the hem of the skirt. Without the black corset, the bodice would be loose, but with it, her breasts never looked better and her waist never looked smaller, and she didn’t even have it cinched as far as it could go.
She knew that some women would most likely wear petticoats or a taffeta underskirt to create the volume typical of the time period the Masquerade represented, but she was opting out of the heavy and cumbersome undergarment. She liked the way the dress moved against her thighs and hips. Why ruin that with a huge underskirt?
If Devlin saw her in this dress, he’d eat his words and then vomit them back up. Rosie smirked at her reflection. But alas, it was very unlikely he’d see her. Not that she wanted him to, but she didn’t think for one second that Devlin would be at the Masquerade. Costumes were a requirement, no exceptions, and there was no way she could picture him even donning a mask. He probably threw a ton of money at the event and called it a day.
Rosie turned, checked out the back, and then twisted around. Her smile grew as she straightened the corset.
The beads rattled suddenly. “You look beautiful, baby.”
Rosie’s gaze lifted, and she saw her mother smiling at her in the reflection. Her mother had come over after work to help her get into the gown and the corset. Rosie looked nothing like her mother or her sister. Bella shared the same beautiful dark eyes and skin, along with the willowy, graceful frame that reminded Rosie of a graceful ballet dancer.
“Willowy” and “graceful” were two words no one in their right mind would’ve ever used to describe her. More like “sturdy” and “awkward.”
An older cousin of hers used to tease her mercilessly when they were children, claiming that she was found in the bayou, and because she’d been young and dumb, she’d run straight to her mom, sobbing hysterically, because she’d been convinced she’d been an unwanted and/or stolen bayou baby.
That was probably the first time and definitely not the last time her parents wondered just how gullible she was, but kids—even family—could be so freaking mean.
It wasn’t until Rosie grew older that she began to take after their father. But all three of the Pradine women had their great-grandmother’s hair. Big, fat curls that were a mixture of brown and auburn, with Rosie ending up with a dash more auburn and her father’s freckles. They were faint, and not even all that noticeable when she wore makeup, but they were there, proving that genetics were weird.
“Thank you, Momma.”
Her mom eyed the dress as she sat in the old, oversized Victorian-style chair with emerald green velvet cushions Rosie had placed in the corner, by the balcony doors. “I cannot believe that was a wedding dress.”
“I know, right?” Rosie turned from the mirror and walked over to the dresser. She picked up the mask. “You don’t think this is too plain, do you?”
“Honey, with that dress, you could just paint a mask on.”
Rosie laughed. The mask was a cheap one she’d picked up in a tourist shop. It was red with black lacing around the edges, simple compared to the ones adorned with feathers and jewels. “Have you seen me try to draw a stick figure? There is no way I am painting on a mask.”
Her mother crossed her long legs. She’d stopped by after leaving the bakery, but there wasn’t a speckle of flour on her. When Rosie left the bakery, she looked like she’d rolled around in it. “You leaving your hair down?”
Rosie nodded. She’d let the hair part in the middle, and right now, as long as the humidity stayed in check, the curls wouldn’t look like a giant frizz ball. “I know everyone will probably have their hair up, but no matter what I do, it will look great when I walk out of here and then look like a porcupine died on top of my head within fifteen minutes tops.”
“That sounds like a bit of an exaggeration,” her mom replied. “I like it down, though. Makes you look sexy.”
She wrinkled her nose at her mom. “I could die a happy woman if you never refer to me as sexy again, Mom.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Is Sarah coming here or . . . ?”
“I’m meeting her over at the house.”
There was a pause and then, “So, do you have any other plans for this weekend besides the ball?”
Placing the mask on the dresser, she shook her head. “Not really.”
That could change if Jilly had any success in getting the Mendez family to allow them to do a longer investigation. There hadn’t been any more activity caught on film, and right now, Jilly was also trying to convince them to allow NOPE to bring in Sarah to see if she could communicate, but they were hesitant to do that, which both she and Lance found odd, but people were weird, even normal ones who believed their house to be haunted.
Of course, Jilly was now convinced that the activity was coming from the house Lucian had bought and, in Jilly’s opinion, that explained why there were long gaps in activity. She was still hounding Rosie about getting access to the house. Just today, she’d left a message so long that the voice mail cut her off when she got to the tenth reason why Rosie needed to ask one of the de Vincents or Nikki about the house.
“That’s perfect, then,” Mom said.
Her eyes narrowed on her mother as she straightened the corset. “Why is that perfect?”
Her mother smiled and it was that smile Rosie knew all too well. It was too eager, too helpful, and she had the glint to her brown eyes. Rosie braced herself. “Well, there is this lovely male friend I think you’d be thrilled to meet.”
Rosie’s mouth opened as her fingers stilled around the bottom half of the corset.
“He’s friends with Adrian,” her mom continued. Adrian was her sister’s husband. “He’s a respiratory therapist, divorced but not recently. According to Bella, he’s very—”
“Mom,” Rosie cut her off.
“What?” She fixed a perfect look of innocence on her face. “I’m just letting you know that there is a guy who I am pretty sure is available this weekend and would love to meet you.”
Rosie lowered her arms. “Please tell me you did not pimp me out again.”
“I would never do such a thing.” Her gasp of outrage wasn’t effective considering her mother had not once but three times set her up on dates without Rosie’s knowledge. “Finding you a date is not pimping you out.”
“Well, it kind of is the same thing,” she replied, returning to the corset. “It’s not like I don’t date.”
“Using Tinder is not dating.”
“Mom.” Rosie wrinkled her nose. “Like you know what Tinder is.”
“Oh I totally know what it is, and quite honestly, I’m jealous there was nothing like that back when I was single. Love your father with all my heart, but it would’ve been nice to have this neat little dating app on my phone.”
Shaking her head, she inhaled her breath and her ribs expanded against the boning in the corset. These things were the worst, but they were sexy as hell. “You’d be swiping right nonstop.”
Her mother snickered. “But seriously, Erick—his name is Erick—would love to meet with you. I’ll text you his number.”
Rosie closed her eyes and said a little prayer. It wasn’t a good prayer. Started with Baby Jesus, please help me , so she doubted her prayer would be answered, but it was worth the shot. “You got this guy’s number?”
“For you. Not me.”
“Well, yeah, obviously.” Rosie paused. “Or at least I hope so.”
“I didn’t agree that you’d go out with him, but I hope you do text him.” She rose from the chair and walked over to where Rosie stood. Her mother’s eyes searched hers. “I just want you to be happy, baby.”