He freezes, realizing what he just said and slaps a hand over his mouth. His long nails click together like tiny swords.
“I’m so sorry, pardon me, protocol!” he squeaks, then lowers his hand.
“Ahem. Anyway”—he flips his hair—“I will be your personal fashion stylist from today onward.
And trust me, my lady… we are about to make the world regret underestimating you.”
Mia shoots me a look.
“See?” she whispers. “Opportunity.”
I exhale, overwhelmed, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or hide under the couch.
I clear my throat and ask him softly, “What’s your name?”
He places a hand dramatically on his chest.
“You, my lady, may call me Kira B.”
Of course it fits him. Completely.
I gesture toward her.
“Kira, this is my best friend, Mia.”
He gasps softly, placing both hands dramatically o
