“We’re going on a date. I’ll pick you up at 6:00 tomorrow night.”
“A date?”
“A real one.”
I bend and give her another quick kiss. Releasing her hands, I repeat, “Be ready at 6:00.” I reach for the doorknob, but need to add, “And for the love of god, please don’t wear one of those tiny dresses.”
“No dress?”
She’s going to be the death of me if she keeps showing up in those tiny summer things. “Have mercy on me and wear a goddamn turtleneck or something.”
“A turtleneck?”
“Please.” I run my fingers through my hair and glance down at her outfit. It’s ratty and old, and I still want to tear it off her and fuck her silly. “See you tomorrow.” I open the door and step out onto her little porch. When I realize how I sounded, I turn around and lean in and kiss her on her pretty, pouty lips. “Thanks for dinner and the snuggle. See you tomorrow.”
“Night.” She’s smiling at me so I’m hoping that means this is all good because one more minute in her place, and my resolve would have been gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Turtlenecks Come In All Shapes And Sizes
The entire time I’m preparing for my date, I’m giggling. The laughter is a direct result of Sam’s edict that I wear a turtleneck tonight. I took that demand seriously, even venturing to the mall for just the right one.
When my doorbell rings, I look in the mirror and smile. I run my fingers through my hair that I painstakingly dried and curled with a wand so it’s in soft waves. Then I give myself a wink.
This is fun.
I take one last look down at my ensemble, then pull open my front door. Sam’s on my porch, looking down at his phone. When he hears the door open, he looks up and smiles. Until he scans down my outfit.
“Have mercy.” He looks up at the sky, then back down at me. “That’s not the kind of turtleneck I was talking about. Jesus.”
He turns and takes two steps down off my porch, then rotates until he’s looking back at me. “I have half a mind to put you over my knee and spank that sweet little ass of yours.”
“Youtold me to wear a turtleneck.” I slide my hands over the silky fabric. “This,” I touch my throat, “is a turtleneck.” And while technically it is, this one is better suited to wear clubbing than to, say, work, which is what I think he meant. It’s got a high neck, for sure, but the fabric is black and satiny, so more like a blouse, in a peplum style to cover my midsection. There’s a cutout right below that high neck that reveals quite a lot of skin. My cleavage is on display, but it’s tasteful. Plus, I’ve paired the blouse with a tight black pencil skirt and kitten heels.
“Jesus,” he mutters again. “That’s cruel, woman.”
“You don’t like it?” I’m starting to wonder if he is upset about the shirt or if he really dislikes it.
“No. Goddamn, it’s sexy as sin. I thought you looked great in sweats and a t-shirt. That”—he points at me—“is next-level hot.”
I smile because that’s what I thought, too. I feel sexy and “next-level hot” in this thing. “Thank you.” I skim my hands over my hips. “It’s not my usual style, but I liked it.” I look over at him. “And we match, because you look amazing, too.” He’s in a pair of dark slacks, a blue dress shirt, and a dark blazer. No tie, but that’s okay, because he’s droolworthy as is. He doesn’t say anything, which concerns me. “Seriously. Is this okay?” I run my hand over my stomach nervously. “I can change.”
“No.” He shakes his head and steps back up to the porch. Moving closer, he slides his hand up the silky sleeve. “In all my life, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you are right this minute. You take my breath away, Colette.”
And BAM. My ovaries just exploded.
Again.
****
In the truck, Sam tells me he’s taking me to a restaurant in his hometown of Carmichael. I’ve heard of the restaurant, but never been, because it’s upscale. I’m not sure if I should go ahead and tell him I’m okay with burger joints and pizza places. Fancy restaurants make me nervous. Looking over at him in his suit, though, I’m hesitant to ruin this. I like the idea that he wants to take me somewhere nice. Never has a boyfriend taken me out like this, and I rather like that Sam is a guy who does it differently. That he knows, as clichéd as this sounds, how to treat a lady.
We’re quiet for several miles. It doesn’t bother me—you know, the silence. I don’t feel the urge to fill it up with jibber-jabber, but I do want to ask him, “How’s the guy? The one who fell?”
“He’s gonna make it. He’ll be off his feet for a long time. Compound fracture in his leg. He’s going to need surgery on it soon to repair some torn shit.”
I wince. “Sorry to hear that.”
