Black, black, maroon.
“No,” I say aloud, flinging a sequined jumpsuit across the bar. “This is dinner. Not the Met Gala.”
UGH!
I want to look pretty and fuckable…
But I don’t want his sister to suspect anything.
Life is hard.
High-waisted jeans.
Black, off the shoulder top that displays enough cleavage to be questionable, but still appropriate.
Heels to better match his height.Or, more accurately, heels to remind him exactly how long my legs are when wrapped around his head.
I finish the look with gold hoops and red lipstick that could leave a very telling mark on someone’s neck if things… were to escalate toward the end of the evening.
“Let’s keep it classy,” I whisper to my reflection as I spritz perfume on my collarbone like a liar. “This is a group date.”
I step out into the living room and nearly collide with Georgia, who gives me an approving once-over and zero hint she’s onto me.
Us.
“You look so hot!” she chirps. “Like, so hot. Like a girl who would make out with my brother at a pool party.”
I freeze. My heart has stopped beating.
“Oh my god—I’m kidding.” She laughs. “You should see your face.”
“It’s bright red, isn’t it?” I laugh nervously. “’Cause that would bewild,wouldn’t it?”
“So wild.”
Then Turner steps out of his room and I catch a whiff of him, vagina already making executive decisions on my behalf.
He looks annoyingly good—hair damp like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial, sleeves rolled up on his blue, button down shirt.
Dear lord, he’s handsome…
Georgia, oblivious, grabs her purse and flips her sleek ponytail. “Let’s go, people! I’m starving, and if I don’t eat soon I’ll start chewing on Turner’s emotional baggage.”
He shoots her a look. I shoot myself an invisible tranquilizer.
I’m spared his close proximity when he volunteers to drive us downtown—Georgia hops in the passenger seat without hesitation, leaving me alone in the back seat.
Great.
Plenty of time to stare at his delicious profile; plenty of time to admire his jawline. Tryvery hardnot to look at the muscles flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves or think about how those hands have been places. On me.
Around me.
And every now and then, his gaze flickers to the rearview mirror, locking on mine for a second too long…
By the time we pull up in front of the restaurant, I’ve mentally cycled through all five stages of grief, fallen back into denial, and reapplied my lip gloss twice.
Fortunately for me, the restaurant is dimly lit, with a moody ambiance and tuxedoed waitstaff, and leather chairs that look as if they belong in a London library. Georgia looks effortless in her blazer and high ponytail.
