Faust
"Like?" Francesca crossed her arms over her chest, drawing my attention to her breasts. The dress was tight across them, creating a plunging, mesmerizing neckline. She looked like one of those Hollywood pin-up girls from the 1940s.
"Like your wedding dress."
Pale, she placed her hand on her stomach and exhaled heavily. Perhaps her comment about vomiting again hadn't been meant in jest. I grabbed the empty trash can from under my desk and placed it within her reach, then waited. She quickly regained her color and narrowed her eyes at me. "I don't need a wedding dress."
I didn't bother correcting her. "I asked a designer friend in Milan for a favor. She'll fly out tomorrow with racks of dresses for you to choose from. Then you'll be ready, and the dress will be ready in a
