After work, I crashed Yvaine's shoot. She was wrapping up a final round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one's heard of but everyone pretends to love.
When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts—this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She'd sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into its soul.
One look at the dress, and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accidents.
I gawked. "You're kidding. I can't wear that."
"Why not?"
"Just... not my usual style."
"That's the point, honey. You've got one shot to stun a crowd and make a man spiral," Yvaine said, hands on her hips. "This is it. You'r
