The dress is hanging in the closet, still in its garment bag. Gabe unzips the bag and guides the dress out with care, examining it from neckline to hem to be sure it hasn't wrinkled or bunched.
It looks good, so he hangs it over the closet door, stepping back to admire the shimmery green fabric. This is the one Demi chose yesterday. There are two alternatives in the closet if she changes her mind. He hopes she won't, though, because he laid out shoes and jewelry that go with this one, and if he has to change all that now they're going to be late for the red carpet.
Thinking of the shoes makes him want to touch the shoes. He goes over to the bed, where the shoebox is lying beside the neat pile of jewelry boxes. All rented, all going back in the morning, all incredibly extravagant. He gets jealous of how girls get treated for the carpet. He'd like some rented swag and sparkle, too. He has to buy his own damn suits and shoes.
The hair and makeup artist comes out of the main room of the suite, smiling slightly at him on her way to the door. "She'll be right in. Have fun."
"Thank you," Gabe says, waving the shoes. Four-inch Prada heels. He picked them out himself, for very specific reasons that Demi told him she really didn't need to know, but he told her anyway. She picked up a magazine as soon as he started talking and ignored him the whole time. It was pretty much as hot as these shoes are.
She points at him as she pulls the door closed. "Don't smudge your foundation. You don't want to look patchy in the photos."
"Nobody cares what I look like in photos, all eyes are on the babe." Not entirely true; the Internet cares what everybody looks like. But he's much more interested in Demi coming into the bedroom and letting him gild her lily.
(It sounds a lot dirtier than it is.)
(That's not entirely true.)
Demi walks in and drops her robe without breaking stride. "Dress."
He drops the shoes and moves back to the closet, slipping the dress off its hanger and bringing it to her. It's sleek and clingy and will hit her about mid-thigh once she's stepped into it and smoothed into place. She turns left and right, giving herself a critical look in the mirror. "I don't think the lipstick is bright enough."
"Disagree." Gabe picks the first jewelry box up off the bed and takes out a delicate gold necklace. "You're not pulling attention to your face this time, babe. It's all about the swag."
"At least you didn't say it's all about my boobs."
"The swag draws the eye to--" She shoots him a warning look in the mirror and he shuts up, handing her the set of bangle bracelets that go with the necklace. They're elaborately carved and pretty and, he thinks, set off her wrist tattoos perfectly, even though that won't show up in any pictures. That's just for them.
"Earrings," she says absently, and he puts them in her palm, then busies himself with the shoes, getting the straps unbuckled and laid open. His pulse jumps a little just handling the damn things, and he cheats a little, letting himself trace his fingers from the top to the point of the stiletto heel. Fuck. These shoes are deadly.
"Stop playing with yourself," she says. Her voice is bored, but it still makes him jump a good six inches. "I haven't got all day. The car will be here soon, you know."
He hooks his fingers in the straps and carries the shoes over, then kneels carefully at her feet, careful not to get any part of his body between her and the mirror. His suit is probably going to get wrinkled, and the Internet will make fun of him, and he doesn't even care, because she's lifting her foot for him without looking down, still watching herself in the mirror.
She rests one hand carelessly on his head, fingers tangling in his curls, and he sets his teeth into his lower lip, using the sting to distract himself while he guides the shoe into place and buckles the straps around her ankle. "Too tight," she says, and he loosens the buckle, glancing up at the mirror. She's watching herself with a faint smile, eyes hot and sharp, and goddamn it, if he jizzes in his suit she's going to make him stay here at the hotel.
She sets her foot back on the floor, heel sinking into the thick plush of the carpet, then tugs at his hair. "Don't drool on me, Saporta." She looks down and meets his eyes now, and the smile just gets more wicked. "Or I won't let you take anything off when we get back."