Olivia Bennett - The Allegra Biscotti Collection

Emma couldn’t help but laugh. “No impersonations. I’m trying to be a designer, not a stand-up comedian,” she said.

She loved that Charlie was so unlike the other boys in school. He was quirky and funny and just comfortable to be with—more like a brother who was the same age than a boy-boy. Ever since Emma had met Charlie in the fourth grade, she’d never felt weird or nervous around him the way she did with guys like Jackson. He had always been just Charlie, and they were just friends, and their friendship was just something that never had to be analyzed or discussed or made into something more. It was easy…even if Charlie himself wasn’t always so easy.

“All right, so we’ll gift the dress to Paige,” she agreed. “But how should we get it to her so she doesn’t know it’s coming from Emma instead of Allegra?”

“We can deliver it ourselves,” he suggested. “There’s probably a messenger center at the magazine. We’ll just drop it off. She won’t even know who brought it.”

Emma thought over the whole thing for a minute. It sounded like it could work. But then again, Charlie could make even the most impossible thing sound like it could work. The only other option was not to do it. And that meant going back to just being Emma, sewing dresses in a corner of her father’s lace warehouse.

“All right, let’s do it.” She glanced over at the wall clock and pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “Roll your chair over here. Let’s write this text message before it gets too late.”

After ten minutes and many more false starts, Emma and Charlie were finally satisfied with their message:

Ms. Young, Thx 4 ur msgs. I did c the blog postings & am v. appreciative. As 4 the dress, pls look 4 a special delivery 2 ur office 2morrow. Best, AB

“Perfect!” Charlie said.

Emma’s finger hovered over the green button on her phone, but she just couldn’t pull the trigger. Suddenly her palms were sweaty. She put down the phone to rub her hands on her jeans.

“Em? Are you gonna send it or what?” Charlie asked.

“It’s just…well, this is a big deal. It’s the first thing Allegra has ever said, her very first conversation!”

Charlie smiled. “Kind of like a baby’s first word?”

“I know I’m being lame, but suddenly Allegra is becoming a real person. She designs clothes and gets messages from an important fashion editor and has pictures of her dresses on the Web…plus, I’m a little freaked out,” she admitted.

“Paige Young is going to be so stoked that she’s gonna be the first person ever to wear an original Allegra Biscotti design. She won’t think twice about the stupid text message. Seriously. Okay?”

“Okay.” Emma pressed send.

Charlie stood. “The second Marjorie gets back and unchains you from the desk, you should finish the dress.”

The dress. Charlie’s right, Emma realized. It’s all about the dress.

In her cozy studio, surrounded by her tins full of buttons and ribbons and a rainbow of scraps from the beautiful things she’d made with her very own hands, the anxiety building up inside her disappeared. Now she was just excited.

She could already picture Paige wearing the raspberry halter dress— her dress. Maybe Paige would tie the sash on the side, or right in the center—or knot it in the back to make it her very own. Maybe she’d even get photographed in it at some fancy fashion-industry party. How cool would that be?

Or maybe she would come out of the bathroom wearing it on the first day of her honeymoon, and her new husband would be blown away at the sight of her. Maybe he would say that she had never looked prettier. And maybe—just maybe—Paige would remember that moment for the rest of her life.

Emma hugged the carefully wrapped package that held the Allegra Biscotti dress—the first one that was going to be worn by an actual person instead of just a dress form—against her chest. She tipped her head back, looking skyward at the impossibly tall and sleek-angled all-glass building that housed Madison magazine.

“You coming?” Charlie asked, as he pushed one of the three massive, revolving glass doors leading into the building. Emma hurried to catch up.

The spacious marble lobby crackled with energy and activity. Several women and a few men stood speaking into their cell phones. The women quickly strolling in and out of glass revolving doors wore narrow pencil skirts in an array of neutrals—grays, blacks, browns, and beiges—no bright colors, as far as Emma could tell, and super high-heeled strappy shoes in rich-looking suede, exotic speckled skins, and here and there a metallic shimmer.

Cashmere wraps and fabulously cut jackets were thrown over shoulders just so—it was as if each and every woman walking through the lobby was camera-ready. Even the men were photo-shoot ready. Their navy-blue and slate-gray suits were slim and fitted, with a dash of color in the ties—subtly textured pastel lilac and eye-popping fuchsia.

Visitors lined up at the front desk between two red velvet ropes, as if trying to get into an exclusive party instead of attend a meeting in the offices upstairs. Messengers—some in neon spandex bike gear—crowded around the far end of the security desk in a less organized way, jostling each other so they could drop off their packages and make the rest of their deliveries before businesses closed for the day.

A shiver ran up Emma’s spine. This is the real deal, she thought. This lobby oozed fashion.

Emma looked down at her nautical navy-and-white boat-neck top and jeans and then over at Charlie’s chunky black sweater and red classic Chucks. “We don’t exactly fit in.”

“Who cares? We don’t need to,” Charlie replied, filled with confidence as usual. Still, Emma wished she had thought to go home and change into something more stylish.

She stared across the lobby at a tall woman in an African-print minidress with a huge collar. Even from this distance, Emma could see the dress was runway-worthy. Amazing, really. The package in her arms suddenly felt strangely heavy, as if she were a child lugging home her beloved preschool art project.

“This place is sort of giving me the creeps.”

“I think we have to go over there with the other messengers.” Charlie headed toward the security desk.

“Okay.” Emma wished she could pull out her sketchbook. The Game would be really easy to play here. She turned to follow Charlie.

“You can not be serious!”

Emma froze. Paige Young stood five feet in front of her.

“ I am not taking a subway down to Tribeca with all these garment bags,” Paige told a twenty-something girl with a super-high ponytail and the skinniest pants Emma had ever seen. Paige covered the phone speaker with her hand and focused on the girl.

“I thought you confirmed the car service. ‘Confirmed’ means calling an hour before the pickup time to make sure they have the booking, not just checking to see that you have it down on my calendar.”

Ponytail Girl quaked in her stacked-heel boots. “I-I can call them now…” the girl who must be Paige’s assistant stammered.