My drink freezes at my lips as I look from Jules to Cali.

Uh, yeah. Me.

“Nope. I searched that baby high and low, and everything seemed to be in place. Maybe Miss Skeptic’s ‘innocent until proven guilty’ was right.” She cuts a grin my way. “Maybe they aren’t thieves after all,” she mocks me. “Just psychos.”

I scoff but look the other way in case a questioning squint is thrown my way.

Little does she know, joke’s on her.

Or maybe it’s on me since it was me they took.

“Okay, first stop!” Jules runs ahead, slipping through the open door of Brunello Cucinelli.

The next few hours are a blur of black cards and bag balancing.

I press the small help button on the inside of the dressing room that rivals the size of my own at home, and it takes less than a minute for the woman to knock her knuckle on the thick, wooden door. After letting her know the size adjustment and swap I would like, she promptly returns with said item in hand, and passes it off to me.

“Last one in this color, Miss.” She smiles, her cheeks flushed.

Not five seconds after the door is closed behind me does Cali’s voice reach me.

“Girl, we’re going to scan over the shoes!” Cali shouts from outside the dressing room.

“I’m almost done, meet you over there!”

Carefully freeing the dress from its hanger, I tug the deep gray, thick strapped number over my hips and spin my body while keeping my head facing the three panel mirrors to see if it hugs in all the right places.

It’s cute, form-fitting, but still, even in this shade, there’s something about it that’s not quite right.

I unzip and free my arms from the straps.

“That ain’t the one.”

I yelp, whipping around at the intruder’s voice, but as the mirrors had already revealed, no one is there.

And then large hands grip the upper frame, a body slipping between the gap as another glides beneath it, all while I remain frozen in place.

With slow shuffles of his feet, the dark-haired one creeps closer.

We’re near nose to nose and he tips his head, a slow grin forming on his lips as the sound of the door clicks, and in walks the third and final asshole from the party.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say, forcing my eyes to stay on the one in front of me, but the question is for all three.

“We haven’t met.” The smile I spotted the other night slips over his face. “I’m Beretta.”

“You’re a perv.”

“Most days.” The corner of his mouth hikes higher and despite the situation, a light huffed laugh leaves me.

I look to his forearm, and sure enough, the bit of damage I inflicted burns a deep red.

“Nice scratches.”