I gasp. “Black tie?”
“That’s the fancy one, right?”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Yes.”
And just like that, I’m painfully aware of my bank account and its sad little balance. A black-tie dress would wipe me out. There’s still time to back out, right? If I rescind my offer to be his date, he might be disappointed, but—
A gentle hand lands on my knee. “Renée?”
I blink back to reality. He’s watching me, concern written across his face. “You okay? You kinda zoned out there.”
I lift his hand off my knee. “I’m fine. You know what, Jonah, I don’t think—”
He cuts me off. “Would it be okay if I boughtyour dress?”
“No.”
“Why not? I’d love to. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“You have?”
He nods, earnest as ever. “I always wanted to ask a girl out, buy her an entire outfit for the occasion, and set up a hair appointment for her too.”
I don’t miss his choice of words—girl, notwoman. It’s a painful reminder: he probably hasn’t dated many grown women. College girls, sure. Yes, they’re technically women, but they’re still budding into womanhood at that point.
But there’s something undeniably sweet—and yes, a little intoxicating—in the dreamy, boyish way he offers.
Oh God. How does he keep persuading me?
“Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it would make me feel good. If I knew you were pampered and looked and felt incredible, I would feel like the luckiest man in the world.”
And just like that, it clicks.
He’s a service sub.
I hate that Amber’s right. He isexactlymy type, and he’d perfectly match my freak. Why did he have to move in next door? This is bullshit.
“Please?” he adds, softly now. AndGod, I have to bite my tongue.
I won’t date him, and we’re not hooking up, so there’s no future here. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun toying with him... right?
I drop a few more beet seeds into the soil but don’t cover them. “Finish planting these, and if you do a good job, I’ll let you buy me a dress.”
He smirks. “Oh, you’llletme?”
I arch an eyebrow, and he tracks my gaze to the holes I just dropped the seeds into, and he catches my meaning. Jonah efficiently covers them in the same manner I did, before continuing the row.
“You’re doing great,” I murmur, and a dark little thrill rushes through me.
He works with quiet focus, every hole exactly two inches apart, a half inch deep by my eye. I drop in the seeds, and he seals them with care, grinning like digging in the dirt for me is the best thing he’s done all week.
When he finishes, he stands without a single knee crack and brushes off his hands. “How’d I do?” he asks, before spotting a watering can. “I should water them, right?”
I nod, but don’t move. “Just a little drink over each.”
With more focus than anyone has ever needed to water a garden, he showers each seedling for a second or two until the can runs dry, and refills. When he’s finished, he surveys his work like a Midwestern dad admiring a perfectly mowed lawn—hands on hips, scanning for last-minute flaws. But there are none.
