“Tay, not helping!” I groan, yanking my jeans down and kicking them off. I’m left standing in my favorite white lace bra and matching thong, trying not to spiral into full first date panic.
“Just go out likethat!” Taylor beams.
I march to the phone and jab my pointer finger at the screen. “If you’re going to bezerohelp, Iwillhang up on you.” Then I glance at the clock and shriek. “Tay, she’s going to be here inten minutes!”
“Okay, okay, real talk—the fuck-me slip.”
I freeze. Then gasp. “Itotallyforgot about that slip, but we are not calling it that. You know how I feel about cussing.”
“Sorry, princess.” Taylor drones with an overdramatic bow of her head. “We’ll call it the make himor hersweat slip, better?”
“Much better.” I nod making my way to the closet.
It’s a black-and-white floral slip dress that tailors at the waist, has a v-line so deep it stops below my sternum and little flair on the hem that ends mid-thigh.I bought it specifically to annihilate my ex, Gerald, after he cheated on me with Tinsley. Had him crawling back by halftime of the homecoming game. But I was already in Timothy Keith’s lap by then.
I yank the dress from the back of my closet, shimmy into it, and grab my brown over-the-knee cowgirl boots. It’s giving hot, feminine, Southern chaos.
Taylor gasps on FaceTime. “Nowthat’sthe look, and cussing or not, that is afuck me slip dress.”
I smirk at my reflection in the mirror, tugging my curls—now fallen into soft waves—into a high ponytail, leaving two loose strands to frame my face just right. A quick swipe of my trusty lip gloss, a warm brown smokey eye, and just like that, I’m ready to makesomeone’sdaughter question her life choices.
“Ten out of ten, would flirt shamelessly,” Taylor adds, pretending to fan herself.
“You’re literally married.”
“Details.”
Before I can roll my eyes again, there’s a knock at the door. My breath catches.
I toss the phone face down on the bed, give myself one last once-over, and head to the door.
When I open it, Jasmine’s standing there, slightly out of breath, her fist still half-raised like she was just about to knock again.
“Holyshit,” she breathes, eyes dragging over me with such blatant appreciation I feel heat climb all the way up my neck. “You look like a fucking goddess.”
I laugh, stepping aside to let her in, but not before giving her a once-over of my own.
She’s in fitted black leather shorts, a ripped vintage tee knotted at the waist, and a cropped moto jacket that clings to her like sin. Her lips are glossed, her earrings small silver hoops, and the necklace hanging low against her chest glints with every movement.
Total rockstar energy. Effortlessly cool. And dangerously pretty.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I say, trying to sound casual even as my brain short-circuits.
She smirks. “Not bad, huh?”
I shut the door, and walk past her. “I said what I said.”
Jasmine leans in close so the scent of cinnamon and the spice of bourbon invades my senses. “Your blush is saying something different though.”
The smooth rumble of her whispering in my ear almost makes me miss a step.Jeez Louise tonight is going to be a tease.
“Alright,so let me get this straight,” Jasmine wheezes, half-choking on a laugh, pointing a limp fry at me like it’s a mic. “You are a pageant queen, an internationally ranked horseback rider from Austin, Texas, but draw the line atbarbeque?”
“Why are you laughing?” I giggle, snatching a fry off her plate and tossing it at her. “I just don’t like it! It’s all sticky and smoky and smells like regret.”
Jasmine takes the hit like a champ, popping the fry into her mouth with a smirk. “I mean, Ithoughtyou were a Texas girl through and through. You don’t cuss, your daddy’s a pastor, you wear boots that could kick through drywall, and somehow—somehow—you’re anti-ribs?”
“Iama Texas girl!” I protest, grabbing my milkshake and clutching it to my chest like it’s a sacred text. “I even got the cowgirl boots to prove it.”
