The price tag large enough to buy half a Ford truck.
But mostly, I hate the way it feels. That tightening of the chest. The ache that’s never completely gone.
Because the last time I wore one, I was saying vows.
I glare at the tux for a solid five minutes before I snap out of it.
I yank my belt free and toss it onto the chair, then unzip my jeans as a laugh punches out before I can stop it.
Mt. Vesuvius.
Idiots.
Though, they’re not wrong.
And maybe that’s the real itch I haven’t been able to scratch.
But what if I’m not ready to date?
Not date-date, anyway.
I glance at the Christmas Bachelor Auction flyer taped to the wall. Bid for a Date shouts at me in bold, judgmental font.
I suck in a breath and remind myself that whatever the hell tonight is doesn’t count.
A date is conversation. Getting to know someone on a somewhat meaningful level. Hauling myself across a runway to be bid on like a prize bull is… performance art.
I think of a date, and the first thing that comes to mind is…
Pouty lips…
Addictive curves.
Pix.
I rub a hand across my scruff. Seriously, would a coffee kill me? Coffee is not dating. It’s a recon mission with sugar and cream.
Call her!
“I don’t have her number,” I mumble to myself. Irritated, I huff. “And now the damn woman’s got me talking to myself. Argh, no good can come of this.”
I crack my neck, determined to not think of her. Especially not her lips.
Is it me, or did it feel like her mouth was always one heartbeat away from starting a fight?
One I’d be more than happy to finish.
With Mt. Vesuvius.
Shut up.
I tilt my head back and breathe out pure frustration.
Why didn’t I go back?
It wasn’t exactly impossible.
Hell, it wasn’t even hard, considering Pix stood there for a small eternity. It got to the point that Travis looked one second away from uprooting her like a Christmas tree just to load her into the car.
