“There are several. What are you looking for?”
“Five stars, please. Something with a nice bar.”
“The Roosevelt, in that case,” he said. “It’s gorgeous. Can I register you for the conference, Dr., uh . . . sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
Melissa hung up. Looked at her savings account. She’d always hoarded her money; she’d had to hide it back home so her sister wouldn’t steal it for drugs, and she had the same attitude now—if you don’t see it, you won’t spend it. How many times had she declined going to the movies or out for drinks, or flying to Florida for spring break? Every time, that was how many, unless Tom had been paying. With two jobs all through college, and the two she had now, she had $8,000 put away. Even so, the convention was expensive. Good gracious.
This email hadn’t come for no reason, Melissa firmly believed. It was the universe answering her! This conference, this investment, was just as important as leaving Wakeford.
She googled “the Roosevelt New Orleans,” and her mouth opened at the grandeur, the elegance of it all. Gosh golly, she’d be staying there! Walking down that grand hallway, looking up at those chandeliers, sitting in that incredibly sophisticated bar! Yes. Destiny itself thrilled through her veins. This was it. This was her path.
She booked a room for the dates of the conference with two extra days beforehand so she could get the lay of the land. Then she surveyed her wardrobe. The conference was in two months, so she had time to prepare.
She stripped naked and looked at herself in the mirror.
Perfect. She worked at it, for one, and for two, the good Lord had blessed her with this bone structure, these green eyes, this blond hair （enhanced at a salon every four months）， these perfect breasts, these long legs. Time to put those blessings to work, and do a little research.
For the next few weeks, she was glued to her computer, researching the most common orthopedic problems, the most challenging surgical techniques, the latest developments in artificial joints. She would not come across as a girl on the hunt for a sugar daddy, no way.
She ordered high-heeled beige shoes with bright red soles （Christian Louboutin knockoffs from China, but would a man be able to tell?）。 On her day off, she drove 170 miles to the nearest Nordstrom. Sitting down at the Dior makeup counter, she asked the young man to make her look “more sophisticated and a little older.” He got to work, telling her about using contour, eye shadow, finding a signature red lipstick. She bought every product the clerk used, and then found four body-hugging dresses, two that were work chic and two that were evening fabulous, all of which would show off her figure without making her look trashy. A brown leather pencil skirt and a sleeveless ivory mock turtleneck sweater in the finest cashmere. She’d never had anything cashmere in her life, and she loved how it felt against her skin. A tight pair of on-trend jeans and a classic white button-down shirt. Last, Melissa splurged on a pair of simple, dead-sexy Manolo Blahnik black suede pumps for the day. They felt like heaven, and the price tag didn’t even bother her. She deserved these shoes.
In the figure-hugging red dress and fabulous shoes, with the Dior makeup enhancing her beauty just enough, the girl in the mirror looked like the woman Melissa wanted to be. She wasn’t book smart, she acknowledged that. She was people smart, though.
And she knew that for this venture—to bag a doctor as a husband—she had to look rich and classy, not just pretty. Surgeons didn’t marry underemployed personal trainers.
On the appointed day, she made the fourteen-hour drive down to New Orleans, parked in the cheapest lot she could find, then summoned a luxury car from Lyft to take her to the Roosevelt.
Oh, gosh. The hotel was dazzling—the columns, the potted palm trees, the intricate tile floor and the gentle, plentiful light that washed everything in gold. It was all so beautiful that champagne seemed to bubble through her entire body. She belonged in places like this.
She checked in at reception, asked if there was a shuttle to the convention center, learned that there was and went to her room. The most beautiful room she had ever seen. A king-sized bed! A minibar! Oh, my gosh, look at this bathroom. Free shampoo and body wash and lotion, oh, my goodness gracious!
She ordered room service （expensive!） and stayed in, strategizing, reading up on orthopedic surgeries, hospitals throughout America, things a medical student would know about.
At eight the following morning, she walked confidently through the lobby in her tight black dress, sexy as hell but conservative, too, in that it wasn’t too short and the neckline was modest. Gold hoop earrings, a knockoff Cartier watch, the Manolos, and a pre-owned Prada bag she had gotten off eBay. A woman needed an impressive handbag. She wore her hair in a neat bun with a few wisps left out.