“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never visited,” I admit.
Jake turns slowly. “You’re going on a date?”
I meet his gaze directly. “What’s it to you? It’s not like I’m in a relationship with anyone.”
He holds my stare for one beat, then another. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then he turns and walks out without a word. A moment later, his door shuts forcefully.
I glare at Lance, who denies stirring him up on purpose. But I know better. The last thing I need is two knuckleheads competing because of me.
That Friday, my brain ricochets between potential taglines and nervous anticipation while Wendy scribbles furiously in her notebook, completely absorbed in the Étoile campaign. Client deadlines loom, but all I can focus on is the fact that in exactly four hours, I’ll be sitting across from Lance at a café that isn’t the break room.
“What about ‘Timeless as Memory, Elegant as Dreams’?” Wendy suggests, interrupting my mental rumination.
I blink back to the present. “That’s...actually really good.”
“Thanks!” She beams, then narrows her eyes at me. “You’re thinking about your date, aren’t you?”
I feel my cheeks turning rosy. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone with functioning eyeballs.” She laughs, not unkindly, and it softens something in my chest. “It’s cute. You deserve some fun after…” Her gaze flicks toward Jake’s office, and her voice drops. “You know.”
By five o’clock, the office clears out in a rush of laptop lids snapping shut and weekend plans tossed over shoulders, and somehow, too quickly, I’m back in my second-floor apartment. I stand in front of my closet and stare like it’s a portal to another dimension, one where I actually know how to dress for a first date after four years of emotional hibernation.
First attempt: a denim skirt paired with a silk fuchsia top, complete with a bow at the collar that suddenly looks like something my mother would have dressed me in for Easter Sunday circa 2003. I twirl before my full-length mirror, cringing at my reflection. The bow makes me look like a gift-wrapped disappointment.
Back to the drawing board.
Flare jeans and a sparkly black crop top? My hands smooth the fabric against my stomach, and I attempt what I imagine is a model walk—one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying. The effect is less runway ready, more strutting with a clumsy motion, like a penguin’s waddle. Not exactly the vibe I’m going for.
I dig deeper into my closet, pushing past sensible blouses and professional slacks. It’s been so long since I dressed to impress anyone other than a potential employer that I’ve forgotten how to be desirable. The realization lands heavy in my chest. Another thing Jake broke when he left.
My fingers catch on something silky, and when I pull it free, a red mini dress slides into my hands, the one I bought in a post-breakup retail-therapy haze and never dared to wear. I inhale, deep and steady, then slip it on. The dress clings to my curves.
The red heels I dig out from under my bed complete the transformation. I wobble slightly as I walk—it’s been a while—but the effect is worth it.
I curl my hair with quick, practiced twists of the wand, coaxing loose waves that fall around my face. Bronze eyeshadow. Mascara that turns my lashes into something commercial-worthy. Lipstick the exact shade of my dress. Then I spritz Lancôme La Vie Est Belle Rose, and vanilla and rose bloom around me, feminine without desperation, sweet without trying too hard.
The doorbell chimes just as I’m giving myself one final critical assessment. My heart hammers against my ribs as I open the door.
Lance stands in the hallway, and for the first time since I met him, his casual confidence slips. His gaze drifts from my face to my dress and back again, slow like he’s taking inventory. His mouth parts slightly.
“Wow,” he breathes, the single word more than enough of a complement.
“Thanks.” I fight the urge to fidget under his stare. He’s not looking bad himself—navy button-down beneath a charcoal blazer, dark jeans, and dress shoes polished to a shine. But it’s his cologne that makes me bite my lower lip—I love it when a man smells this good.
“Ready to go?” He offers his arm.
“Just a sec.” I grab my clutch, check for keys and lipstick, then step out into the hallway, forcing myself to breathe through the nervous flutter in my stomach. It’s just dinner and coffee. No big deal.
My heels click against the pavement, punctuated by the occasional scrape as we head down the block. I’ve gotten so used to sensible flats that these stilettos feel like balancing on sharpened pencils. Halfway to the café, my right ankle wobbles, and my arms fling out, grasping at nothing, but Lance’s hands are there, steady and sure, catching me before I can introduce my face to the sidewalk.
“I got you,” he says, his grip gentle but firm on my waist.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry—these shoes and I haven’t spent much time together lately.”
“No complaints here.” His smile is warm, reassuring. “Though I’m happy to carry you the rest of the way if needed.”
I’m glad the café is only two blocks down because I need to sit down. I already know my feet will be killing me tomorrow. The things we do to impress a member of the opposite sex…
