It is very nice, but I do not have time to sit for a portrait. “Perhaps another piece with jewels might be better.”
“Wait, hold up,” Neli says, rising from her chair. “Can you give us a moment?” she says to the crone.
“Of course,” the crone says, stepping to the far side of the counter.
“What is it now?” I demand. “First you insist I wear these trousers that look worn by many others, and then you insist on underclothes, which confine my very large—”
“Boz, please! We need to get going. You’re eager to see Stella, right?”
“Of course. But I must bring her a gift.”
“Okay, but you can’t bring her jewels on a first, uh, meeting.”
“Date,” I correct.
“Collaborative time together.”
I suppress a sinister smile. Soon, Stella, soon.
“Just go with something simple,” Neli says. “You know what modern girls like? These charm bracelets.” She indicates a display case. “You can go with the gold, and later she’ll enjoy adding charms to it.”
I can hypnotize Stella, so I do not see the need for charms, but I will defer to Neli’s knowledge of modern women. “Yes, I will go with this charmed bracelet.”
I snap my fingers at the crone. “A gold bracelet and all your best charms.”
Our time at the mall ends soon after that, and I am pleased with my purchases. After we are both seated in the Beemer, I begin to wonder if the bracelet will truly be enough. “Are you certain Stella would not want a pygmy finger monkey? Or a stable of albino horses?” I want her to know how beautiful she is, and what better way to show it than buying her exotic animals from faraway lands? Something to show off to her friends and make them envious.
Neli stifles a smile. “Yes, I’m sure. The gift you got her will definitely be enough.”
I relax, removing my odd hat and black glasses. And now to seduce—no, I need to use modern lingo—to collaborate with my date for eternity.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stella
I’ve been weirdly anxious today, watching the clock in anticipation of Neli and Mr. Bozhidar’s arrival tonight. Despite him being rude before, the thought of seeing him now sets off butterflies in my stomach.
What’s up with that? Must be because I’m so excited about their willingness to collaborate with us. A jointly produced wine! With the Castle Sangria Winery! How exciting! And doesn’t Castle Sangria sound like a party place already? Neli called to float the idea of a wine blend this morning, and I jumped on it, inviting them over to discuss the details. Nights work better for Mr. Bozhidar with his schedule and sensitivity to sunlight from his medication. (I wonder if he has Lyme disease. I’ve heard the antibiotics can make you sensitive to the sun. He otherwise seems to be the picture of health.) Anyway, I can be as flexible as they need if it means a solution to Stellariva’s problems.
The twins made fresh-baked bruschetta with tomatoes and mozzarella. Mr. Bozhidar doesn’t care for sweets.
My parents are settled on the sofa in the living room, but I’m too anxious to sit, so I pace the first floor, stopping to peek out the front window every ten seconds. Mabel and Eliza are hanging out in the kitchen, waiting to meet Boz for the first time. They’ll make themselves scarce for the business part of the evening. I smooth nonexistent wrinkles out of my white maxi dress with light blue floral toile print. I love this dress with its cascading capelet short sleeves. I paired it with white open-toed heels. My long dark brown hair is down to cover the red mosquito bites that appeared on my neck this morning. I hope I look okay. Oh, I can’t wait to see him.
Wait. I mean…I can’t wait to discuss this new wine! Yes, that’s what I meant. Because it would be silly to want to spend time with Mr. Bozhidar. He’s rudeness personified. A barbarian in the body of an ancient warlord.
That doesn’t make any sense either. But for some strange reason, every time I think of Bozhidar, I have a vision of him riding a dark stallion on a moonlit night, his black cape flapping in the wind. His eyes are intense, filled with fury and despair.
“Stella, you’re going to wear a hole in the hardwood,” my dad calls in a teasing voice, snapping me out of my weird thoughts.
I stop in the archway of the living room. “I’m too wound up.”
“Clearly,” says Mom, who is holding hands with my dad on the couch. I hope one day I can find the kind of love they have, but for the moment, I’ll take not seeing my family having to live in a cardboard box.
The doorbell rings, and I dart from the room, yelling over my shoulder, “I got it.”
I open the door and my breath hitches. My gaze locks on the glowing black eyes smoldering down at me. He looks different somehow. More unbearably handsome and sexier. How’s it possible? He’s the same contemptible man I met earlier this week.