“Go on,” he prods me with a nod of his head.

With a pained sigh, I tell him, “My life is a complete mess at times. Being a single mom trying to navigate the stressors of raising kids has taken a toll. And then Max comes into my life, and he’s amazing and has done so much to help me—like recognizing my art talent and helping me turn that into something—that I should be over the moon about having a relationship with him, right?”

“Right,” Stevie agrees.

“Except I keep focusing in on the negative stuff and it drags me down,” I admit to him, almost shamefully.

Yes, shamefully because I know it’s sort of a cowardly thing to do.

“Like what?” Stevie inquires.

“Max is famous. People are drawn to him. Women are drawn to him. He has fans so devout that some of them hate me just because I have his attention. Hell, I had a woman lay into me last week while I was out shopping. She told me I didn’t deserve him. And I’ve been called a gold digger, and hell . . . even Max’s brother questioned my motives. It’s just too much for me to handle with trying to raise kids and deal with their father, who’s now threatening to try to get them back. It’s just . . . it’s too much.”

I look at Stevie expectantly, because I’m sure he’ll agree . . . this is a lot of burden on a young woman’s shoulders.

“So what?” Stevie says dismissively.

“What?” I ask incredulously.

“So. What,” he repeats slowly. “It’s really simple. If you love someone—and I know you love Max—then you take the bad with the good. The good totally outweighs the bad in this situation, so you ignore the bad. Figure a way to suck it up, buttercup, because that’s Max’s life. If you want him, you take him as is.”

“But—”

“He took you as is. You say your life is messy? Well, guess what? Max saw that from the beginning and he said, ‘So what?’ He took your bad and he reveled in your good. He wanted the good so much, he was willing to put the work into dealing with the bad. And sweetie pie, I’m here to tell you . . . all the negativity and second guessing of you is going to go away. It’s not here to stay. People may question your motives now, but why do you care? There will be a day when that won’t happen, and even more important . . . who gives a fuck right now? Max doesn’t question you, and really, he’s the only person that matters.”

A complete and massive wave of shame hits me as I take in Stevie’s observation. Max took me with my messy life and he said, “So what?”

He never questioned my motives.

I mean . . . I knew this. This isn’t a revelation. I’ve known from the beginning that Max took me, warts and all, and I know this because I’ve often questioned why he would do such a thing.

Most of that shameful wave of guilt has to do with the fact that he takes all of that because he loves me.

It’s as simple as that.

He loves me so he works with the bad.

He loves me despite the bad that comes with me.

And here I am, proclaiming to love this man—which I do—and I’m not willing to give the same to him in return.

It’s really just that simple.

I didn’t give Max back what he gave to me.

More guilt.

More shame.

Fuck. I’m such a goddamned idiot.

I let out a pained moan, “Ugh.”

“You just had a proverbial slap to your face, didn’t you?” Stevie asks with a grin.

I nod fiercely. “I think I knew deep down the truth of what you’re saying, but I guess I couldn’t see past my own frustrations to really understand the simplicity of it.”

“Looks like my work as a fairy godmother is done then,” Stevie says, and then looks at his watch again. “And you have plenty of time to get ready for the gala now. I’m sure Max will be thrilled. But I wouldn’t tell him. Just show up and surprise the crap out of him.”

My stomach pitches, first in a joyful way to think that I can get things back on track with Max. There’s no doubt he’ll forgive my momentary lapse of sanity because I know Max. I know him down to his soul and he loves me. But then it pitches like a bad drop from a roller coaster as I realize the gala isn’t going to happen.

“I don’t have a dress,” I tell him sadly. “I don’t have a damn thing to wear to the gala.”

Stevie looks down to his watch, seems to think about something for just a moment, then says, “I’ll be right back.”

I watch as he turns and sprints to the back workroom. I hear something bang and then he’s sprinting back to me with keys in hand. He jingles them in front of my face when he meets me, then grabs my hand, dragging me to the front door.

I follow along, my head spinning. When we get out onto the sidewalk, he lets me go so he can pull the door shut and lock the flower shop behind him.

Then he turns to me and says, “Good thing you have a fairy godmother then. Let’s go find you a dress and get you ready.”

I’m all for that, but then I come to a screeching halt when I exclaim, “Wait. I can’t. My friend Tina’s watching the kids right now but she has plans tonight, so I don’t have a sitter.”

Stevie turns around after making a dismissive wave at me and starts pulling me along. “Auntie Stevie will be babysitting tonight. And when I say tonight, I mean all night, so that means you won’t turn back into a pauper at midnight. That also means Max will take you to his house and, well . . . let’s just say I expect a very big smile on your face in the morning when you come home.”

Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what will happen!

The next two and a half hours are a whirlwind of activity. Stevie marches me three shops down to a designer consignment shop owned by a tall, statuesque woman with silver hair in a sleek chignon. After air kisses and introductions—her name is Stella—they lead me over to a rack of gowns. Without consulting me, only with each other, they pull forth a gorgeous deep coral dress and usher me into a dressing room.

While Stella helps me try on the dress, Stevie gets on his phone and I hear him say, “I have a hair and makeup emergency.”

Slight pause, then, “Not for me but for a dear friend.”

Another slight pause. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

By the time I get the dress on—which is beyond phenomenal, with a cut-out halter top with thin straps that crisscross over my upper back but leave the rest bare until you get down to my hips, where the material drapes almost indecently low while still looking elegant—Stevie’s thrusting a pair of bronze-colored strappy high-heeled sandals to try on.