“True enough,” he says. “This is why I need you. To offset my utter lack of charm.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding, but the Ian I knew in college was perfectly charming. This Ian—well, he’s the same Ian, but more serious. Less likely to cut loose, though that’s hardly true in the bedroom.
“I don’t think your sexual prowess will be a big selling point for this job,” I muse aloud.
“What?” Ian looks startled.
“Nothing. Tell me about who else I’ll be meeting.”
“The CFO is named Walter Williams. Nice guy.” Ian takes a sip of his drink. “He’s married to an equally nice guy named Trevor, who I’ve only met once when he came by to drop off Walter’s lunch. They have two teenagers who may actually be joining us for dinner.”
Tiny slivers of embarrassment embed themselves into my lungs. Despite the diversity of my social circle—I was a bridesmaid in Cassondra and Katie’s wedding, for crying out loud—I still have some old-school preconceptions about marriage. I know damn well marriages don’t all look like the kind I saw on sitcoms as a kid, but apparently I need reminding sometimes. That’s one thing to say for this agreement with Ian—It’s an opportunity to open my mind to the huge variety of couplings that make the marital world go ‘round.
“Your colleagues sound awesome,” I say. “Seriously. I can’t wait to meet everyone.”
Ian squeezes my hand. “You’ll be perfect,” he says. “Charming and witty and exactly who I need to counter my stuffiness.”
“You’re not stuffy.” There’s a flicker of defensiveness in my chest, which is weird. Am I defending Ian from himself?
“I’m not touchy-feely, either,” he says.
“You’re touchy-feely in the ways that matter.” I can’t help giving a sexy little smile. “Not just the sex, though that’s amazing, too.”
Ian grins. “Speaking of touchy-feely, could I persuade you to forgo panties again Friday night?”
I give him a coy smile and pick up my mug. “Possibly,” I tell him. “You do have a record of persuading me to do some pretty out-of-character things.”
Like this engagement. Holy God, am I seriously going to do this?
The fact that it’s starting to sound less insane might be the weirdest thing of all.
On Friday night, Lisa comes over to help me get ready. She’s the one person I know who owns a makeup palette the size of my kitchen counter and has the expertise to use it.
Junie is with her to offer moral support.
“Hold still,” Lisa commands as she tickles my eyelids with an impossibly tiny brush. “I need to get your highlights just right.”
“You should let her do the fake eyelashes,” Junie advises. “It’s like having spiders on your eyelids.”
“I don’t want spiders on my eyelids,” I tell them both. “Or anywhere else on my body.”
“Quit moving around.” Lisa swats at my hand, which I didn’t realize I was using to fiddle with the beachy waves she created for me using a curling iron large enough to deserve its own zip code. “We’re almost done here.”
I resist the urge to sigh like a surly teenager as I glance over at Junie. “Did you decide which dress?” I ask her. “The black or the purple?”
“No,” Junie says.
“No, you haven’t decided?”
“No, you shouldn’t wear those dresses.” Junie walks past the pile of designer cocktail attire Lisa brought over for me. Instead, she reaches into my closet and pulls out a bright yellow dress. “Wear this one.”
I do my best to keep from grimacing. I love Junie for wanting to be involved, but that dress? “I bought that at a thrift store last year when I was planning to go to the costume party as Big Bird.”
I refrain from adding that I gave up on that costume idea when my date—who was supposed to be Oscar the Grouch—bailed at the last minute. It was the sixth time I went alone as a ninja.
“I’ve been meaning to get rid of it,” I add, hoping Junie drops it.
But she holds up the hanger so the garment shimmers and sways. Lisa stops swiping a foamy little sponge over my forehead and stares at the dress. “Where on earth did you get that?”
